


You are a lovely adjective, no word ever enough

by angelichl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Broken Harry, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Louis, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-01-18 00:52:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 56,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12377568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelichl/pseuds/angelichl
Summary: "I love you,Louis thinks now, feeling the words on the tip of his tongue. Willing them to spill out. But he knows that if he spills these treacherous thoughts out loud, Harry will panic. Maybe he'll even run away, like he ran away form The Monster.I love you,Louis wants to tell him anyway. Wants to whisper it into his hair, kiss it onto his cheekbones, breathe it down his throat.Instead he chews on his nail and says nothing."The hurt/comfort AU in which Harry leaves away an abusive relationship, and Louis offers to share his flat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write psychological literature, so here it is.
> 
> Warnings:  
> \- Descriptions of rape and sexual/physical/emotional abuse, all of which happen before the story begins or in the form of flashbacks  
> \- Typical PTSD responses such as dissociation and nightmares  
> \- Self harm and eating disorders (bulimia) as unhealthy coping mechanisms are also briefly mentioned
> 
> If you have any questions before you read about any of the warnings above, don't be afraid to ask.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.

_“_  
monster! monster!  
he would scream  
man monster man monster  
he stripped me down, cut me open  
I lay bare-boned  
and he calls me the monster.  
“

—I broke the chains he placed on me. dared to dream of a life without him. he caged me and yet I unfurl my wings, it is I who is the monster. godless.

 

Harry is certain the world is driven by fear.

 

He thinks this, one day, as he sits on the carpeted floor in the corner of the bookshop, hidden behind tall rows of newly printed books that rise all the way to the ceiling. He is surrounded by words, by the beauty of their garrulousness, by the infinite range of images and emotions they induce and provoke. A shiny new thesaurus is open in his lap as he pensively drums his fingers on his knees and stares at the page that has fallen open by chance.

 

Fear. The word and its family members all stare back at him: alarm, apprehension, dismay, distress, dread, fright, horror, panic, terror, trepidation. The letters on the page blur into squiggly lines as his eyes fill with tears.

 

Harry knows the feeling of fear, knows its causes, knows its side effects, knows the word like it’s an old friend. He knows dread in the way he dreads going back home. (And then he thinks that the place he lives right now is not really his home, just his flat. Home is his mother’s house, home has never been forty-ninth street, home has never been the well-groomed one-bedroom apartment, home has never been so bleak.)

 

He knows horror in the way that sometimes his life is a horror movie. Or maybe it’s one of Stephen King’s tripartite thrillers, a three-part saga with an added-on sequel, the series that never ends even though it gets old quickly. In fact, it’s been old for a while now, and you throw your hands in the air and frustratedly huff _why does he keep going back_. The protagonist is stupid because he really should _know_ by now, and the same awful thing keeps happening again and again. All you can think is _wow, he must really be dumb. He just never learns_.

 

Harry knows horror in the cliché, knows it in the way that his life is an overused plotline that he just can’t escape. The dramatic irony is all there, he’s sure; there must be an easy solution, one only he cannot see. (If his life were a movie, his audience would be screaming at the screen right about now.)

 

Harry knows panic, knows it in the way it feels to be trapped. Trapped in this situation, in this relationship—trapped between his boyfriend’s fist and the linoleum wall. He knows panic like screaming and shouting, like drunken fights, like ropes tying him to bedposts. Like make-it-up-to-me sex. Like let-me-fuck-you-and-I’ll-forgive-you sex.

 

Like the glinting blade of a knife.

 

Harry knows fear. But then he thinks that maybe he’s just being melodramatic, so he closes the thesaurus and stands up to slide it neatly back into its spot on the shelf. His legs are stiff from his contorted position and his bum is numb from sitting for so long. Yet he ambles away anyways, desperate to escape his harrowing thoughts.

 

This is why Harry spends almost all of his free time in the bookstore. Because when he reads, the rest of the world falls away, and for three-hundred or so pages he can pretend to be someone else, anyone else. Anyone else except Harry Styles, the coward and weakling.

 

He should probably go to the library, considering he rarely ever buys the books he reads, and instead sits on the carpeted floor of the store and reads right there. But there’s something about the ambience of the store that makes him feel safe. Safer than anywhere else. Hidden among the books.

 

There’s another reason, too. Another reason why he comes to this little shop every time he gets the chance, when his classes end early and his boyfriend won’t be home for hours.

 

“No nap today?” Louis teases, lounging on the chair behind the cash register, feet propped up on the countertop. A thin book is cracked open in his hands. He’s the picture-perfect image of easygoingness, the human embodiment of the word _carefree_. The very acute opposite of Harry.

 

Harry shakes his head and glances at the large analogue clock hanging on the wall behind Louis, figuring he has a few minutes to spare before he has to rush back to the flat to ensure he gets home before his boyfriend does.

 

“What’re you reading?” He asks curiously, struggling to catch a glimpse of the cover in Louis’ hands.

 

“Bukowski.” He marks the page by folding the corner, then hands the book over the counter. “He’s good. Have you read him before?”

 

Flipping through the book, eyes scanning over the stanzas, he mumbles a quiet, “haven’t.” It looks like something he would enjoy.

 

“You would like him. You can borrow it when I’m done, if you want.” Louis smile is bright and contagious—he can’t help the corners of his own mouth quirking up in response. “Although, I believe you still have my _Siddhartha_. And my _Lovely Bones_. Have you finished it yet? What do you think of it?”

 

Harry rests his elbows on the counter and debriefs Louis of his thoughts on both books, admitting that _The Lovely Bones_ is way too sad for him and he’s only halfway through.

 

The trauma reminds he too much of his own, of course, but he keeps that concerning truth to himself. The novel begins with a graphic description of a rape that is gruesome and sickening, and it had caught Harry off guard even though he should’ve been expecting it. The book doesn’t appear to be the type to have a happy ending, so he’s quite reluctant to continue reading.

 

(In all honesty, he can’t get past the first three pages no matter how hard he tries.)

 

Ever since January, just five months ago, when Louis first spoke to Harry, Louis has been gifting Harry with book recommendations. That frigid, wintry day when they first met has been a bit of a turning point in Harry’s life. For the months leading up to that day, Harry felt as though he was stumbling through the dark, no sign of light anywhere. Happiness corroding away. His relationship with his boyfriend had turned sour, and with every passing day the man Harry went home to began looking less and less like the man Harry fell in love with in the first place.

 

It was frightening, feeling so alone, so unhappy. Afraid. That winter was when he began to turn to strange tactics just to cope, like slicing the pale skin of his thighs open with the point of a safety pin, until his skin split and blood wept out like tiny beads of red ruby.

 

(His boyfriend laughed when he first saw the scars.)

 

December is also when Harry started purging whenever he felt upset or overwhelmed. He would run to the bathroom, lock the door, bend over the toilet, shove his fingers in his mouth. Stroke his gag reflex and clench his stomach muscles until he puked up his last meal. He still does it sometimes, albeit less now when he spends more time with Louis. Purging is strange, dumb, awful, but nonetheless comforting in a way he cannot explain.

 

Last winter his boyfriend was away at the car dealership where he worked (he’s a Ferrari salesman) and Harry wasn’t busy with school, so he went to the bookshop. It was partly due to his hunger for reading, but mainly because the store, wedged between a vegan donut shop and a psychic business with tarot readings, felt like a safe haven. When university became stressful, with Harry in his fourth year and so close to getting his bachelor’s degree in education, he would head over after classes and scan the aisles. He calmed himself by running his fingertips over the book spines. When his boyfriend was overbearing or stifling or frightening, he would slip away if he could and spend some time tucked up between the pages, reading until everything was seemingly okay again.

 

Sometimes Harry can’t sleep at home. Especially when his boyfriend is there. Sometimes he lays awake at night with his boyfriend’s arms around him and he feels smothered, suffocating under his hold, feeling unable to get away. In the beginning he loved how it felt, someone else’s arms heavy around his waist and chest, another body pressed up against his own, encompassing him.

 

Now he just feels trapped.

 

(Sometimes he thinks he really loves him. He is a handsome man—breathtaking in both his physical appearance and his air of power.

 

And yet… this is a sick type of Stockholm Syndrome. This is a messed-up type of love.

 

It started as a normal relationship. Then it turned sour.

 

How could he have known this man is abusive?

 

How could he have foreseen the violence, the neglect, the cruelty?

 

And how can he love the man who hurts him?)

 

At night Harry lies awake for hours on end, exhausted but never fully falling asleep. And he has tried everything: tea and lavender oil and bubble baths and sleeping pills, and every other remedy under the sun. But nothing ever works. Nothing settles the anxiety that burns deep in his gut when the man beside him pulls him tight to his chest. Those are the _good_ nights—when his lover is in a pleasant mood and actually desires to show some affection.

 

(The bad nights go like this:

 

There is drinking, there is screaming, there is aching. There is tying Harry up, there is playing with boundaries, and there is fucked-up fucking and forcing.

 

If he knew any better Harry would call it _rape_.)

So he has watched too many sunrises through the crack between the curtains to count, and sometimes he’s so exhausted that he falls asleep during the day when his boyfriend is gone. Still, he feels on edge even in the empty flat.

 

But the bookstore is a different story. When he steps inside his anxiety dissipates. There’s something about the books, the pages. The rows upon rows of universes. How he can read and pretend to be someone else—pretend that Harry Styles of Cheshire, England doesn’t exist—for as long as he wants.

 

He’s fallen asleep in his special corner of the bookshop too many times.

 

That’s how he met Louis. Louis had been the one to wake him up, the first time, when it had been purely accidental. He will never forget what it felt like to open his eyes to meet pale, shining blue ones, and a cute mouth telling him the shop was closing in ten minutes. Like a weird sense of pacific calmness washing over him even though he had been startled awake.

 

And then the fear that came rushing in, overwhelming and cold enough to raise goose bumps on his skin, when he realized he was supposed to be home hours ago.

 

Disoriented, it had taken him a moment to gain his bearings. The first thought he had was _where am I?_ He must’ve voiced it out loud because Louis laughed and it sounded like pealing bells and he said “fell asleep in a bookstore, mate,” in his feathery voice laced with his Yorkshire accent as he offered his hand to help pull him up. Harry took it and his skin was warm and soft, soft, soft and Harry’s heart was beating quickly and he felt dizzy.

 

Months later and Louis’ smile still makes Harry feel dizzy. Makes him feel warm.

 

“Alright, Harry?” Louis asks, quirking an eyebrow. Harry realizes he must’ve been zoning out again because Louis is looking at him with that amused expression again. He does this a lot, always zoning out, going all space-cadet and missing minutes of conversation. Sometimes it happens even when he’s reading, and he’ll find himself twenty pages ahead with no recollection of what he’s just read.

 

(Give him some time, and Harry will eventually learn that he isn’t just ‘spacing out’—the term for this is dissociating, and it’s a consequence of post-traumatic stress disorder.)

 

Back in the now, Harry mutters a measly, “’m fine,” and adjusts his bag on his shoulder.

 

“Boyfriend treating you alright?” Louis inquires, lounging in his chair again and reopening his book—the epitome of feigned nonchalance. The question is a joke but Harry’s heart skips a beat anyway. He fumbles for a second and Louis looks up from his book, curious… and a bit concerned.

 

Harry tries out a smile but it probably looks more like a grimace so he shoulders his bag again, laughs, and offers an affirmative answer in addition to a hasty goodbye, shuffling out of the store in a whirlwind of summer air.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry’s just turned the stove on when the sound of the front door opening cuts through the general silence of the empty flat. He listens, tense as shoes are slipped off and nudged against the wall. Keys clatter to the bowl beside the closet. Footsteps trail towards the kitchen.

 

In an instant, giant arms engulf Harry from behind, wrapping around his stomach and his chest. A warm body clothed in a pristine and expensive suit presses against his back. Harry can feel his boyfriend’s heartbeat _thud thud thud_ against Harry’s shoulder blade. It should feel intimate; it’s meant as a soft embrace. So why does it feel so much like a power play?

 

His voice is deep and gravely and raw, sultry when he speaks. Sexy. “What’s for dinner?”

 

“Filet mignon, your favorite,” Harry squeaks, voice up three octaves from where it usually is, the wave in timbre and confidence hopefully undetectable (although that really is a long-shot). He preys on weakness and Harry’s determined not to give it to him, today at least. He needs to remain unaffected, calm.

 

“Mmm, love you.” Hands on his hips, slipping up his shirt the tiniest bit, caressing his sides. It makes Harry shiver. The effect _isn’t_ lost on the broody man behind him.

 

Before his boyfriend has a chance to dwell on the fact that every single atom in Harry’s body is screaming _GET AWAY/RUN/HIDE_ , Harry says, “love you too. Go change into something comfy, food’ll be ready soon.”

 

Body rigid, hands clenched on the edge of the countertop, eyes glued to the raw meat beside the stove. Curling into his embrace, showing submission. This is a daily task, a way of life. Harry knows no different. _Be good_ , he thinks. _Do as he says. Submit._

Harry is all too familiar with fears, knows the feeling like an old friend. Knows the feeling like he knows the sharpened blade of a kitchen knife, just a little too personally, a little too intimately. His eyes momentarily flicker across the room to the kitchen block where the various cooking knives are stored, on the other countertop. His boyfriend is closer to them than Harry is.

 

He cannot help the fear that crawls up his throat.

 

It’s an innate reaction, implicit and all about self-preservation. He’s tried to forget, tried to wipe it from his memory, but his self won’t let him forget, not fully. His body still aches and cringes away from knives. His body still tenses when his boyfriend enters the kitchen. He tries to forget but he _cannot_ , he _remembers_ , he remembers the drunken haze and the lustrous glint of metal and the threat of harm, the threat of _pain_.

 

He remembers the games he’s always liked to play. The ones where he hurts Harry, and if Harry flinches or moves in any way he gets beaten even worse. He remembers how it’s worse when he’s drunk, less inhibitions and more fantasy, asking Harry to do impossible tasks and then punishing him when he inevitably fails.

 

He remembers being tied up to the bed, ropes on his wrists and ankles. Remembers a rag shoved in his mouth to keep him quiet.

 

He remembers feeling trapped.

 

He remembers the knife in his hands.

 

He remembers the Fear.

 

He remembers the blood trickling down, red and hot and metallic against the pale skin of his thighs, the words grotesquely carved into his weeping flesh…

 

“I don’t deserve you, baby. You’re too good to me,” Harry’s boyfriend breathes, back in the present now, pressing a few chilly kisses to Harry’s neck and jawbone, his touch scorching Harry’s skin.

 

And Harry remembers that same voice saying different words, vicious enough that he loses sleep at night because of them.

 

_You’re a slut, a whore, you fucking piece of shit. You’re worthless. You know that, right?_

Harry pulls on a smile and turns around in his arms, leaning in and kissing him gently on the lips. “You have that backwards, I think.” And his voice is full of love.

 

Does he love him? He likes to think the answer is yes. It feels like he does, this heavy weight in his chest, in his heart. It feels a lot like love.

 

But.

 

(How can he love someone who has tied him to the bed with rope and carved vile words into his skin with the pointed tip of a kitchen knife?)

 

There’s fear residing in his heart too.

 

Fear woven into the pericardium like surgical thread.

 

His lover pulls away reluctantly, promising a quick return to shower him with kisses and more, and heads to their bedroom to change out of his stiff suit and into comfier clothes. As soon as he’s out of the room, Harry exhales slowly, allows his shoulders to fall from their tensed position, and begins cooking.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Later, Harry approaches the dining table with two dinner plates in his hands, setting them down and retreating to the kitchen for a bottle of red wine. When he returns, he pours each of them a generous glass and sits back in his seat. His boyfriend compliments him on the meal—filet mignon, rosemary roasted potatoes, and steamed green beans—and Harry blushes at the praise. They eat in content silence for a while.

 

“How was work?” Harry asks politely, playing the part of perfect homemaker and prodding at his steak with his fork. He’s never liked red meat; he thinks he wants to become a vegetarian, but he knows what his boyfriend thinks about vegetarians, he’s very outspoken on that topic. (Among many other topics. Harry would love to argue but he knows the consequences for speaking out of turn.) And steak is his boyfriend’s favorite meal.

 

He spirals into a novel-length retelling of his day at work, and Harry listens with intent, commenting when it’s appropriate but altogether letting the man across from him speak freely. He vaults into a discussion of his future work plans, what the rest of the summer will look like for the business and how they’re employing a new marketing strategy to expand their realm. Harry thinks he makes a very nice business man. He’s clean-cut and stone-cold. He fits perfectly in the rigidity of the job. All hard edges and commanding voice, the epitome of power and assertiveness.

 

Eventually Harry’s boyfriend has the heart to ask, “what did you do today?” when their plates are empty and they’ve already finished more than half the bottle of wine and the night is still young. (No matter, it’s a Friday night and neither of them have any obligations for tomorrow.)

 

Harry tells him briefly about finally finishing his thesis, ready to turn it in next Monday to graduate in two weeks time. He’s almost received his degree and he really just can’t wait. Harry talks minimally and prays his boyfriend won’t ask about the rest of his day.

 

“That’s all you did?” Just the finishing touches on his two-hundred page thesis, he means, as Harry told him. There’s disbelief laced within the words, not difficult to notice. Disbelief and the need for control.

 

Harry’s heart falls to the floor. He’s a terrible liar. He tries anyways. “That’s all.” Said with a smile but his words are so tense, and flat in tone, and it’s obvious. It’s so obvious.

 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s because he’s stressed and overworked.

 

Maybe he gets off on it, on the pain of others. (Last week at the bookstore, Harry stumbled upon Wilhelm Stekel’s _Sadism and Masochism_ and promptly read the book cover to cover before running to the tiny bathroom in the back of the shop to fall to his knees in a stall and puke out his guts…)

 

Maybe he just isn’t a good person.

 

Maybe…

 

Maybe.

 

(Maybe Harry is really good at making excuses for his very own abuser. Isn’t he?)

 

He gets angry.

 

The night turns from okay to disastrous in a flash, mercurial and capricious and frightening. Harry is frightened. Isn’t he always?

 

There’s shouting, harsh words launched like ammunition, bullets slicing through the air.

 

_SHUT UP! SHUT UP YOU WORTHLESS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. YOU LAZY SLAG. I OWN YOU. YOU’RE_ MINE _. YOU’RE NOTHING BUT PROPERTY TO ME, YOU WORTHLESS WHORE._

There’s Harry, backed into the corner like a scared animal, crying, apologizing, trying to make things right. Trying to make things better.

 

_I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m-_

His boyfriend is mad because he knows Harry was at the bookstore. He hates it when he goes there, hates it when Harry leaves the flat without him, save for his classes even though that is a stretch. Harry cannot help but remember the time he stormed into the store and searched the aisles one by one until he found Harry, grabbing him by the hair (it was long back then, down to his shoulders in unruly curls) and harshly pulling him to his feet. Dragging him all the way _home_ , to shove him against the wall and beat him to a pulp… then letting Harry’s defeated body slump to the ground, fucking him right there on the cold wooden floor…

 

That was only a few months ago. Now, the shouting elevates even though Harry doesn’t shout back. He remains completely silent and complacent. He’s afraid. He’s afraid, and he knows how it’s going to end, and he doesn’t put up a fight.

 

_DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE?_

Nothing but a whimper. Helpless and trapped. Like a deer in the middle of the road, wide-eyed and afraid, lit up and blazing in the headlights. Startled, paralyzed, about to be crushed by a semi-truck.

 

_WHO AM I?_

_My m-master._

_AND WHAT ARE YOU?_

_Yours…_

_MY WHAT?_

_Your slave._

A cruel laugh, enjoying the sight of a defiled Harry.

 

(Defiled Harry! Deflowered Harry! Oh he who is bleary and blistered and beaten, finally broken!)

 

There is the feeling of hands on him. Warm, but they make him feel cold. He shivers and cringes away from his touch, but when his lover smacks him in the face, _hard_ , he collapses forward and falls into him. Giving up. Dull nails scratch at his skin under the guise of passion, raised red lines marking up and down his arms and his stomach, too, one his t-shirt is pulled off. There’s hair-pulling but not the good kind, not the kind Harry likes. It’s angry. He’s angry. He’s angry as he kisses down Harry’s jaw, his neck, his chest. Fingers gripping him hard, keeping him in place.

 

This is a man who likes a conquest—this is a man who will command/control/CONQUER. He is the true image of MAN: harsh and unforgiving, taking what isn’t his, moving through the sheer force of stubbornness and unmatched power. Selfish, greedy, he wants more, more, more, always fucking MORE. This is a man of authority, a man who bosses people around all day at work and even that isn’t enough—he has to come home and do it too, just to get his fill of influence. This is a man who is rigid and rank, a man who knows no limits. A man who will not take no for an answer.

 

Dirty, disgusting, vile. Harry wants to disappear, wants to fade away, wishes he could stop existing now and forever. He feels himself retreating, back into the safe space of his mind, dissociating from his body. A thin memory of Louis floats to the surface of his conscious, quick and fleeting but there all the same. It’s stupid but he latches onto it as tightly as he can, pulls it close to his soul to never let go. An image of Louis, like a long-lost photograph, smiling and laughing and so carefree. Safe. Harry almost smiles.

 

The sound of a zipper lulls him to the present. Harry’s zipper. Tugged down carelessly. Jeans shoved to his knees.

 

He knows how this ends. And the only word running through his mind is _stop. Stop_.

 

His lover’s eyes are wild, like an animal’s. Pupils blown wide with lust and attraction and RAGE. Harry’s eyes are filled with TEARS. Either he doesn’t notice them or doesn’t care.

 

(The damage is the same.)

 

It happens like it always does: quickly, messily, and painfully.

 

Harry’s left on the bed, gasping, crying, curled in on himself like a child. His core is aching, burning, surely bleeding, and he feels sick to his stomach and fucking _violated_ and tears are pouring down his face like a rainstorm and he’s messy with snot and drool and cum and he gasps for air, feeling panic swell in his chest and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t-

 

(There is a truth, a small detail, and it is this: in his haste, his _lover forgot to tie him up_.)

 

Through the chaos and the agony, there’s a thought that rises in Harry’s mind, pulled to his attention over the sound of The Monster running a shower. The Monster, his lover.

 

The thought is blindingly simple. It is this:

 

_Escape_.

 

Harry lays there, still and silent in pure agony, like a psychological experiment. The insight hits him like a smack to the face. He sees himself in place of one of the psychologist Seligman’s dogs, tied up and tortured with electrocution until the restraints are removed but the dog doesn’t run away even when it has the ability. _Learned helplessness_ , he knows the term, learned it in his Intro to Psych class in high school and then again in uni. Learned helplessness—the powerlessness after the abuse, the inability to escape _even when the ropes are cut and the door is wide open_.

 

He only has a few minutes.

 

Heart pounding, Harry flies off the bed faster than he ever has before. Aching, aching, aching. Everything hurts. He springs himself to the closet with no regard for the pain anymore and digs around for his bag before hastily shoving in as much of his clothing as he can grab. He’s making a ruckus and he’s afraid The Monster will hear but he doesn’t have any time, there’s no time, there’s no time-

 

He runs back into the bedroom and grabs his phone, his charger, the stack of books hidden underneath the bed. His wallet. The ceramic dish of his rings on the nightstand. His rosary.

 

Shoves it all in his bag, struggles with the zipper.

 

THERE’S NO TIME.

 

The shower turns off and his heart drops. He’s still shaking harder than before and he feels like he’s going to die and he’s still naked and covered in cum and tears and he needs to put clothes on, he needs to get out of here, he’s gotta get away _away away away away AWAY_.

 

He pulls on a shirt and a pair of sweats, no time for underwear. He’ll be out any minute now and Harry has to RUN.

 

He’s halfway out of the door when he hears shouting behind him, and then something’s flying through the air and crashing against the wall beside him, shattering, and there’s a lot of swearing and threatening, name-calling like WHORE and BITCH and SLAVE and CUNT, but he doesn’t look back, doesn’t even falter as he crashes through the flat, desperately sprinting toward the front door.

 

He flings it open and catapults down the hall, The Monster chasing after him. He tumbles down three flights of stairs, half-running and half-falling, and then he’s flying through the lobby and out the door.

 

The Monster doesn’t follow him out here, he doesn’t think, but he’s still so AFRAID so he keeps running. He RUNS and RUNS and RUNS through the streets, barefoot and desperate, his heavy bag dragging him down.

 

It may be late, but it’s a Friday night and the city is as alive as ever. He runs through the crowds of pedestrians on the sidewalk, weaving in and out and not slowing to apologize even when he harshly bumps into handfuls of people, body-checking their shoulders.

 

HE’S SO AFRAID. SO AFRAID.

 

ALL HE’S EVER BEEN IS AFRAID.

 

THE WORLD IS DRIVEN BY FEAR.

 

No idea where he’s going, no idea where he’s headed, he runs. He runs as far away from The Monster as he can get, all the while only thinking AWAY AWAY AWAY. The word winds itself into his head and he thinks it purposefully, like a chant. And he’s afraid. He’s so afraid.

 

Harry runs for as long as he can, crossing busy city streets, cars swerving out of the way to avoid hitting him, until exhaustion hits like a freight train and he stumbles down the sidewalk.

 

The warm summer breeze flutters around him, and the sun has only just slipped beyond the horizon, a brilliant shade of blood red fading into black near the infinite line.

 

The night is busy, the city crowded. People of every type, out and existing and free.

 

Those who walk past Harry _look right through him_.

 

INVISIBLE.

 

It feels like a cry for help that no one hears. Like a nightmare where you open your mouth wide with every intention of screaming until your throat collapses, but no sound comes out.

 

There’s fear in invisibility—in crying for help and having no one listen.

 

Without awareness, he stumbles down the sidewalk and into the road. Disoriented and panicked. The world is spinning unsteadily beneath his feet. He thinks he might COLLAPSE.

 

Every second feels like a century, and his senses are heightened in the strange way that he remembers meaningless, minute details like the brief sound of a saxophonist playing in a jazz club, or the lanky teenage boy standing at the stoplight with his skateboard in his hands. There’s the smell of incense mixed with freshly baked dough mixed with the dirty smell of the city, swirling around in the air.

 

He remembers the sensations, too. The feeling of his lungs burning, his legs shredded, his eyes watering in the wind and tears streaming down his face, mixing with sweat and dripping in his mouth—the taste of saltwater, of the ocean, the sea.

 

And then a blinding light. Bright.

 

The squeal of car brakes, a startled scream.

 

The harsh force of impact, metal slamming into his side and sending him flying through the air.

 

A moment of weightlessness, his stomach dropping like he’s on a rollercoaster. That feeling he had when he was a kid and would swing too high on the playground and it felt like the world was melting away and he was projecting into orbit, until the harsh tug of the chains tethered him back to earth. It feels like flying.

 

He doesn’t experience the bone-crushing impact of his upper back smashing against the road, or the feeling of his bare skin scraping against the concrete.

 

He blacks out before his body hits the ground.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Far away, there is peace.

 

A natural rivulet, trickling water down smooth stones. Evergreens lining the meadows, casting shadows that flicker and dance. An aged oak tree in the center, creating reprieve from the sun’s sultry glow. God’s tree.

 

He dreams of childhood. He dreams of tall, green grass soft beneath his back. June air ruffling his hair. Summer sun on his skin. Wildflowers of the most beautiful colors—ivory and violet and canary and lapis. And in the sun’s golden light, scintillating off the crystalline surface of the water, everything is beautiful.

 

He dreams of no obligations, no commitments, no responsibilities. No pain, no torture, no abuse. No Monsters. No fears.

 

No humans no humans no HUMANS.

 

Just the feeling of warmth.

 

The feeling of safety.

 

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Above him, angels hover. Wings and halos and glowing golden dust. He can’t see them, but he can feel them. He can feel their auras, the warmth of their souls. He knows they’re there.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

His sense of sound returns before his sense of sight. There’s a mixture of voices, urgent shouting that’s much too loud, disturbing the peaceful quiet. He wants to tell them to be a bit quieter, to let him sleep please, but can’t figure out how to work his lips or his tongue or his jaw, so he suffers, as trepidatious discussion fills the air.

 

One voice rises above the rest, and though it is panicked and worried like the others, it is gentle and sweet and wispy, and warm. Familiar. He can’t make out the words—syllables blur together, morphemes and phonemes muddled and distant—but just the sound alone still a bit of the anxiety building in his core. He thinks that if he had his kinesthetic abilities he would smile at the lovely voice.

 

Instead, he relaxes deeper, and lets himself drift away.

 

There’s a light just beyond his reach, _but he reaches out to grasp it anyway…_

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

What finally pulls him to consciousness is not the rampant debate occurring above him, nor is it the pain that blossoms in his upper back and spreads down his spine to his toes and up to the crown of his head. It is the sound of that voice, that particular voice, saying this in particular:

 

“ _Call an ambulance_.”

 

Ambu- what now? The word takes a million years to register in his mind. But when it does…

 

No. No. That can’t happen. He can’t let that happen.

 

The Monster. THE MONSTER. Harry seizes up in fear, suddenly recalling why he was running in the first place.

 

The Monster. The Monster, his lover! _His first emergency contact_.

 

If the voice above him calls an ambulance, he’ll go to the E.R. and. And.

 

They’ll call the ONE AND ONLY person on his emergency contact list.

 

His boyfriend.

 

Not his mum, not his sister, not anyone else. He hasn’t talked to them in years, not since he got in a row with them during his second year at uni, not since he moved in permanently with his boyfriend.

 

No. NO. He can’t go back, he can’t go back, HE CAN’T GO BACK.

 

In his fear he finds the power to lift his arm and feel around blindly, stopping when his hand bumps into something soft. He curls his fingers around whatever it is he has found, and grasps as tightly as he can, tugging helplessly, a litany of hopes in his mind begging for his weak action to catch the voice’s attention.

 

In a stroke of luck, it does.

 

 “Harry?” The voice, the familiar one, asks, and it’s so recognizable but he can’t just put the name to it so he struggles to open his eyes and see.

 

He tries to respond, tries to say _no, don’t call an ambulance_ , but all that comes out is _mmmfgghhh_.

 

“Oh Jesus fuck, thank fuck you’re not dead. Thank _fuck_.”

 

Harry opens his eyes. Everything is blurry. His fingers twist around the fabric they’re clutching tightly—the front of someone’s shirt. He pulls again, until he feels a cold hand clasping on his wrist. His eyes focus.

 

He’s stunned for a moment as the world swings light and comes flooding back to him. Everything is chaos, but all he can see is the person above him.

 

“Oh fuck, this is so bad,” LOUIS is rambling, eyes wide and searching Harry, “this is so bad, fuck, shit shit shit, fucking shit, oh fuck-“

 

He twists his fingers further into Louis’ t-shirt, and the pain is everywhere except for where Louis’ hand is encompassing his wrist, and if it is Louis’ touch that makes the pain go away then maybe he just wants to curl up in his arms and never let go.

 

“No,” Harry manages to choke out, voice gravelly and quiet, nowhere near the volume it needs to be for Louis to hear him. He tries his very hardest to speak louder. “No don’t- don’t call. Please. I can’t go.”

 

Louis doesn’t seem to understand him or maybe even hear him. “Don’t worry Harry, we’re gonna get help, everything will be okay.”

 

No. No! He can’t let that happen. He opens his mouth again, intent and even more frantic. Somehow he finds the words, those strangled words:

 

“No, Louis- don’t, my boyfriend- he- please. Don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.” He’s aware he’s babbling but it’s the best he can do and he’s certain he’s crying now, hysterical but there’s nothing he can do to stop it so he just twists his fingers further and further into Louis’ shirt and prays he understands. “Please don’t…”

 

 

By some miracle, he must comprehend, because he leans down close and intently and asks, “why not?”

 

He just shakes his head, crying. “I can’t. Can’t go. Can’t go. Please-“

 

Louis sucks in a deep breath of air, then exhales slowly as if to calm himself down, still staring with wide eyes like he can’t believe the situation. “Harry, you’re a mess. We need to go to the hospital.”

 

“No! No, please.” He tries his hardest to sit up, to prove he’s fine, and he only partially succeeds, sitting up but swaying dangerously before giving up and leaning into Louis. “I’m … fine. S-see?”

 

“Fuck Harry, you’re not fine! Jesus Christ, your back!” He exclaims.

 

“Please, please, I can’t go, I can’t go Louis, I can’t, I can’t, please, I can’t,” and he’s slumped into Louis, face pressed in the curve of his neck, sobbing, begging. “They’ll call him, I can’t, I can’t- please! Please, he’ll hurt me, I can’t go, I-“

 

There’s a long, waiting pause.

 

“Fucking Christ, Harry, fine. Fuck. You better not fucking die on me though.” He places his hands tentatively on Harry’s shoulders, looking uneasy, and calling out to someone, telling them not to call. Harry sighs in relief.

 

“Where am I? What happened?” Harry asks, with clinging to Louis with no intention of ever letting go.

 

Louis—this boy from the bookstore who has absolutely no obligation to help Harry—sits patiently and lets Harry cling to him. Harry thinks he must be uncomfortable, sitting on the side of the road like this, crouched down on the concrete. Harry’s blood is staining his clothes and his skin but he hasn’t complained yet. He just gently rests his arms around Harry to steady him.

 

“In front of the bookshop. You were hit by a car.”

 

“Is the driver okay?”

 

Louis laughs. Actually laughs. “Yes, Harry, she’s okay. Just a little shaken up, and on the phone with her insurance company right now. Liam is taking care of her though. You sure about not going to the hospital?”

 

Harry nods absently, staring at the woman who is standing with her back to them, talking worriedly into her phone. A man with armfuls of intricate tattoos is standing beside her. (“Liam”?) He wonders if there is any damage to her car, if he’ll have to pay for it, if it even matters at all. He was the one in the middle of the street after all.

 

“Yeah, ‘m sure.”

 

Louis pulls them out of the street, to the sidewalk. Fifteen minutes later and Harry is up and standing—albeit he’s swaying on his feet but it’s a victory nonetheless. He apologizes to the woman profusely, though she isn’t injured from the collision, and he exchanges phone numbers just in case. She keeps looking at him like she feels guilty, even though Harry has reassured her a million times that he’s fine, he doesn’t need to go to the hospital, he doesn’t need to go to court, he doesn’t need financial compensation from her insurance company. It was his fault anyway.

 

“Let’s just forget about it. Pretend it never happened,” he advocates, feeling woozy and dizzy. He has to keep it together because the way that Louis is looking at him suggests he might end up in the hospital if he shows any more signs of damage, internal or external. He hugs the lady for a little too long, since he’s feeling so woozy. He apologizes again and again for ruining her night and tells her to call him if she finds anything wrong with her car. Finally, they part ways.

 

Harry is left standing up in front of the psychic business (directly next to the bookstore where Louis works), propped up against the brick wall. Louis is hesitating by his side, probably worried he’ll tip over or something.

 

“At least let me make sure you get home safely,” Louis offers quietly. He’s still wearily eyeing Harry.

 

They’re strangers, Harry has to remind himself, but no, no, that term never really fit them, never described them accurately or completely, because from the very first moment Harry saw Louis, kneeling low on the carpeted floor to re-alphabetize the small selection of Z’s in the romance section, Harry felt as if he had known him for years. As if Louis was a childhood friend, one he hadn’t seen in eons but the time spent away didn’t matter because they would fall into easy conversation soon enough.

 

It was like looking into the mirror and seeing a part of himself he had been missing for years.

 

Harry isn’t sure how he’s still standing on his own two feet. He can’t see the wounds on his back but he knows they’re bad; he only has the adrenaline to thank for the pain not being incapacitating. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like he has any broken bones. He knows he should go to the emergency room just to be sure. But. The shame of the entire situation makes him want to do anything but go to the hospital and have people question him. Or worse: call The Monster.

 

And it’s not just his back, which has been rubbed raw from friction against the road, nor is it just his shoulders and collarbones which hurt from the impact. Nor his head which is pounding incessantly with forceful pressure, like it’s going to explode. It isn’t just the burn in his lungs or the fire in his legs from running for miles as fast as he could.

 

It’s his jaw which still stings from The Monster’s whack. It’s his neck which still throbs from his hickeys. It’s his core which still aches from his intrusion. It’s the sensitive skin that singes and sears and scorches in every locus of The Monster’s touch.

 

Distracted by his pain, and by how much he loathes himself, his weakness and his cowardice and his defilement, Harry’s mind takes a long while to process Louis’ tentative offering.

 

HOME. The word reaches Harry’s ears far too long after it is uttered, and then he finally as an _oh shit_ moment, because _home_. For the past three years, ever since he moved out of his dorm room, his place of residence has been with The Monster.

 

But home is not there. It never was.

 

Home is not anywhere, anymore.

 

Harry finally gives in to the aching chant of every single atom that comprises his creation, begging him to give up. Surrender. SURRENDER. He sinks to the ground, no longer grasping any drive or volition to remain standing. There’s a certain sadness to his defeat, a certain somberness, and all he can think is _what’s the point? What’s the point?_

 

Knees folded to his chest, face buried in his hands, bloodied back pressed against the brick wall, he crumbles.

 

A million years ago, when he as a child, he thought he would never know suffering. Agony was just a foreign concept, something far away and told in a fairytale, always resolved before the last page.

 

This is not a fairytale. This is his life. God fucking damn it, this is his life!

 

It’s been four fucking years and he’s finally coming to terms with the fact that his relationship with the only person he’s ever loved is ABUSIVE and there’s a GAPING HOLE in his chest where his heart used to be and he’s WASTED four years of his life God fucking damn it! He’s twenty-three years old and the world feels like it’s ending. He’s actually fucking glad for the physical pain because its presence at least parallels the emotional trauma that burdens him, and in this strange mindset he thinks that maybe he just wants to fucking die.

 

_What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?_

_IS THERE NO POINT?_

“Harry.”

 

There are arms around him, gentle and warm and soft. The action is unfamiliar, no one’s ever been this careful with him. But… the _sensation_ is familiar, like he’s known it his entire life. Like the arms around him belong to someone just like him. Someone made from the same stardust, carved from the same star.

 

“Harry,” Louis repeats, quiet voice utilized like he’s talking to a wild animal. Harry wants to laugh bitterly at his realization. He doesn’t, he just keeps crying.

 

“Harry, do you have somewhere to go?” A soothing hand strokes his hair. “Talk to me baby… do you have somewhere to go?”

 

Voice broken, shattered, hungry, defeated. “No.”

 

He lightly runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, over and over again. The small gesture is nothing to combat the years of abuse and torture Harry has faced. But. It’s a start.

 

Isn’t it?

 

“What about family? Is there anyone you can call?”

 

Harry shakes his head. He misses his family. His mum and his sister. Robin. The cat. They’re so far away and they’re angry at him anyways, angry at him for not visiting home for holidays three years in a row, for always having an excuse, for never visiting because The Monster never let him. He desperately wants to see them, wants to hug his mum for the first time in years. They’re angry at him and he’s sure they don’t want to see him and he just can’t do that. He just. Can’t.

 

Louis hums in response, so calm and dulcet, so caring, it makes Harry ache. Makes him want to run away as fast as he can. Makes him want to hide away in the bathroom and vomit his guts out, like he usually does when he hates himself this much.

 

“You could… crash at, um, my flat? It isn’t far from here… You don’t mind dogs, do you? I have a labradoodle. In fact he kind of reminds me of you. Huh.”

 

Harry doesn’t want to go anywhere. He just wants to remain crumpled against this brick wall until he withers away and turns to dust. Maybe he’ll find something sharp to drag across his skin until he bleeds even more.

 

“Alright, Harold, I’m making the executive decision—you’re coming with me. Up you go now, c’mon. It’s just a short walk this way.”

 

Louis manages to pull Harry up, and loops his arm around his waist, gently leading him down the street. Harry makes no move to object, submitting quietly instead. That’s all he does nowadays it seems. SUBMISSIVE HARRY, DOCILE HARRY. Whorish and worthless and shameful. Undeserving of anything good.

 

If it weren’t for the city lights, the stars above would be visible. Instead, the sky is empty black, like sticky oil dripping down. He wants it to continue dripping down, cover his face, seep into his throat, suffocate him. He welcomes the torture with open arms now. Wants the pain and the abuse. He likes it, right? That’s why he didn’t run away for years. Submissive Harry, docile Harry _, masochistic Harry. He shouldn’t run away because deep down he knows he deserves it, knows he enjoys it…_

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

In ten minutes Louis is impatiently wiggling his keys in the lock of his flat. He grunts, twisting the key as hard as he can and praying he doesn’t break it, before the lock eventually gives and the door swings open. “Finally,” he moans.

 

In that instant Clifford comes barreling towards them, barking at the intrusion, and Louis placates him for a moment by scratching behind his ears and begging him to be quiet because it’s late and the neighbors will complain. The labradoodle pants happily and nuzzles his head into Louis’ touch, closing his eyes. Louis laughs and kicks off his shoes before looking back at Harry, expecting him to do the same.

 

Except. He’s not. He’s just standing in the threshold, staring at nothing, his expression dazed.

 

“Oh Harry,” Louis breathes, hand dropping away from Cliff who bounds forward and sniffs at Harry curiously, blissfully unaware. Louis steps forward slowly and holds his hands out encouragingly. He takes a deep breath. “Look, love. I have no idea what happened, and I’m not gonna pretend I know what’s going on. You’re free to tell me if you want but by all means you don’t have to.”

 

For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of Clifford’s dull nails clacking against the wooden floor.

 

Louis keeps his eyes steady on Harry, unwavering. “Just come inside, take some painkillers, let me clean off your back before it gets infected, and then you can konk out. Everything’ll be better in the morning… but you have to let me help you first.”

 

Harry meets his gaze, testing. He’s unsure, cautious, AFRAID. His trust has been BROKEN, DEMOLISHED, and OBLITERATED too many times for him to consider trusting another. He thinks it’ll take centuries before it has any chance of ever being repaired.

 

And yet… this is Louis. He’s never been anything but kind and sincere. And though Harry’s mind is screaming _what’s the point what’s the point what’s the point_ , he looks at Louis standing there in his black skinny jeans and his army-green jacket and his white t-shirt stained with blood, looking honest and genuine and unaffected and so inexplicably harmless that Harry feels… safe.

 

So Harry steps forward into the flat, barefoot, feet dirtied from running in the street. Shirt torn and bloodied, jeans unintentionally ripped at the knees, hair tousled and sweaty. Body weak and aching… and. And. He feels this quiet harmony within his bones, this gentle whisper that soothes him. Whispering, in its silent way, _this… this is the point_.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

In the bathroom, Louis gently peels Harry’s shirt away from the wound, wincing every time Harry winces. He pulls it over his head once it’s unstuck from the come and blood and tattered flesh. It’s quiet save for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of their breathing.

 

Harry clutches the countertop in pain when Louis prods at the bloodied area, biting back a quiet groan that sounds much too loud for the tiny room.

 

“Is this the only wound or are there more? I need to see everything so I know what I’m dealing with,” Louis says, calm and authoritative. Harry can’t help but think that he would make a great medic. A great anything, actually.

 

“Umm,” Harry mumbles, unsure. Everything hurts so it’s difficult to tell.

 

Louis circles around him, inspecting his chest and his stomach closely. “Are these bruises from the crash?” He asks, confused, lightly tracing his hands along the fingertip-shaped bruises on Harry’s hips, beside his laurels. His eyes trail upwards, from hip bones to abs to chest to neck, landing on the bruises and bite marks on his neck and collarbones.

 

He thumbs a polychromatic hickey at the junction between neck and shoulder. This is when understanding dawns on his features. His hands fall to the raised red lines on Harry’s stomach, the scratches from The Monster’s claws, and Harry flinches away.

 

“Oh Harry… he did this to you, didn’t he?”

 

It’s phrased like a question but Harry knows it isn’t one. Louis already knows the answer, and his eyes are DARK and ANGRYs, like nothing Harry’s ever seen in them before. Harry doesn’t respond.

 

“That fucker,” Louis seethes, voice protective and fierce, brushing his fingertips down Harry’s shoulder before dropping his hands altogether. “That absolute shit-head, fuck, I knew it, I knew he was doing this to you!” Louis groans, exasperated, eyes wild. “That fucker!”

 

He slams his palm down hard on the counter, the startling action making Harry jump.

 

“He’s gonna fucking pay for this,” Louis continues, walking back to his spot behind Harry and surveying the wound, voice softening when he sees Harry’s weary expression. “Later though. I’m gonna fix you up first. Are your legs okay? Do you have any more scratches?”

 

Harry shakes his head, feeling very small.

 

“Okay, now I’m gonna ask you to lay down…” Louis mandates, laying a towel down on the ground and gesturing for Harry to go ahead. He lowers himself down onto his stomach and lets his cheek press against the fluffy towel, hair falling into his eyes.

 

“This is gonna hurt, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s okay,” Harry whispers.

 

Louis kneels beside him and begins cleaning the wound with antiseptic wash. It stings, but hurts no more than it did before just a different kind of pain. Harry doesn’t really react, aside from curling his fingers together and allowing his eyelids to flutter closed.

 

Once most of the blood is washed away, Louis is able to survey the damage, and is relieved to see that while the wound is expansive, it isn’t very deep. Harry definitely should go to the hospital but he was so adamant about not going that there was no way Louis could have ignored his pleas. So Louis steels himself away and tells himself he will just have to do a damn good job of treating him.

 

It isn’t until Louis has to use the tweezers to pull out pieces of gravel imbedded into his skin that Harry becomes uncomfortable. “Fuck,” he groans unhappily. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but the word has been bouncing around in his head for ages now, so it was only a matter of time.

 

Louis continues anyway, apologizing profusely. “I’m so sorry, I’m almost done, just a few more, I promise.”

 

_A few more_ apparently means ten more minutes of Louis digging around in Harry’s skin to fish for the smaller pieces of road, and by the time he’s finished Harry is so exhausted that he doesn’t even feel it anymore. Louis breathes out a sigh of relief and begins bandaging the large scrapes.

 

After admiring his handiwork, he exclaims a cheery, “all finished!”

 

He really did well, considering the state of Harry’s back, and the few supplies he had to work with.

 

“Thank God.”

 

Louis pets Harry’s hair affectionately, remembering the time when his curls were down to his shoulders. He cut his hair not long after meeting Louis. Louis had a feeling Harry’s boyfriend didn’t like his short hair. Harry must’ve cut it anyway.

 

Louis shudders while thinking about the possible repercussions Harry had to face for going against his boyfriend’s wishes. He pushes the thought to the back of his mind—something to inquire about on another day.

 

“Alright Hazza, time to get up. Want a shower?”

 

Harry stands slowly, and Louis rises with him. He hesitates. “The bandages?”

 

“I’ll need to change them before you go to bed anyway. Go ahead; you’ll feel a lot better.” Louis gently nudges him in the direction of the bathtub. “Start your shower and I’ll drop off a towel. And please don’t pass out or die while you’re in there. Yell if you need me or anything.”

 

He backs out of the bathroom, and when he’s out of sight Harry unbuttons his jeans and struggles out of them, abs and core undeniably sore. He’s greeted with the site of an extensive bruise blossoming up his hip, presumably from when his lower body collided with the car. He prods at it curiously and is rewarded with a sharp pain that makes him drop his hands immediately, hot spots of white flashing in his vision and making him nauseous.

 

_Note to self: don’t do that again._

 

With a sigh he steps into the shower, closing the curtain behind him. It takes a few moments for him to get the water on as he struggles with the unfamiliar handle for a dumb amount of time, until freezing cold water finally bursts from the faucet. He jumps out of the way, the icy stream chilling him to his core, goosebumps arising on his skin almost immediately. He accidentally bangs his elbow on the wall and the sound resonates loudly throughout the bathroom. The flat is so quiet that he’s sure Louis heard.

 

The door opens and Louis asks, “you okay?” and presumably sets a towel on the countertop.

 

“Yeah, all good,” Harry winces, too exhausted and in pain to be embarrassed, though he can feel his face heat up in a blush despite the frigid water.

 

Louis laughs lightly, hidden on the other side of the curtain, and it sounds as sweet as it always does, those angel bells pealing. “Alright Harold. Have a good shower.” The door shuts softly.

 

Harry migrates under the water before it warms up, and he’s greeted by that same frozen chill that hurts and numbs simultaneously. It’s painful, but… there’s this part of him deep down inside that whispers, in its quiet voice:

 

_You deserve this._

The statement echoes on the walls of the shower, crashing down on him. And it feels heavy. It hurts.

 

Everything he’s been through the past day, week, month, year… it hits him all at once, like the ceiling caving in on him, and he feels trapped. He’s been avoiding the inevitable for eons and it seems to be that he cannot push the thoughts away any longer. He needs to think about it now, or else he’ll break apart from the inside out.

 

So he breaks down.

 

Paralyzed with pain and fear and hatred, he leans against the wall of the shower and lets the frigid water run mercilessly over his body. He hopes he’ll get hypothermia and freeze to death, or maybe the PAIN and FEAR and HATRED will kill him before the shower does. He presses his cheek to the cool tile, and thinks that maybe he’d like to sleep for an eternity.

 

Or maybe he’d like to just.

 

Stop existing for a while.

 

He sinks to the ground. Body crumpled in on itself, curled up like a fucking child. He’s twenty-three years old for fuck’s sake, and here he is, sobbing and shaking and WISHING HE WAS DEAD.

 

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

 

There’s a voice in his head, a voice that isn’t his own. A voice that sounds a lot like The Monster. A voice that screams:

 

_Fuck you. It’s your fault. You were easy to manipulate. You were an easy victim. It’s because you’re WEAK._

_And you like it, I know you do—I even saw you come. You enjoy it. You get off on it, you sick bastard, the feeling of being used, abused. DEFILED. You like it when I’m rough with you, don’t you? You like it when I order you around, make you do things and punish you when you fail._

_You like to obey me. You were made for this. You’re a dirty slut, a whore, WORHTLESS and DISGUSTING. No more than an OBJECT, just something to fuck. PROPERTY TO OWN._

_You’re a masochist._

_YOU DESERVE THIS._

Through the dissonance he can barely make out the pounding of the water against the bathtub, and he thinks that the sheer force at which the droplets are pummeling the acrylic is comparable to the guilt and shame destroying him now. He listens to the voice in his head, the one biting nearly cliché insults that shouldn’t cut him so deeply, except they _do_ cut him deeply, not because of their creativity or their force but because of their TRUTH.

 

He asked for it. He enjoyed it. He must have, right? Why else would he come?

 

Harry must really be sick. He must really be a masochist if he could get off on the pain and the torture, the humiliation and the agony of being treated like nothing more than an object, hypersexualized to the point where his capability as a sexual receiver is ALL THAT DEFINES HIM. It’s his fault. He wanted it.

 

Right?

 

(Deep in the sickness of his mind, there is an honest voice that whispers to him. This voice says, _you asked for the rape, the abuse, the attack, the betrayal. You wanted it, and you enjoyed it._ And he thinks it’s true, because he knows he’s wicked. He knows he’s twisted, perverse, abnormal. He knows he’s sick.)

 

And then… the other voice. The quieter voice. The voice that hides underneath the covers like it’s afraid of monsters in the closet. The voice that hides in the shadows but is afraid of the dark. The voice that is his own:

_I am awful._

_I am awful. I-_

_I deserve this._

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry doesn’t notice the bathroom door opening.

 

He doesn’t notice the footsteps against the tile floor, either. Nor does he pay attention to the shower curtain being tugged back, or the small hand that reaches out to turn the water off.

 

He doesn’t look up again until warm hands are gently pressing against his skin, one palm placed flat against his shoulder blade and the other clutching his bicep. The soft, affectionate touch is enough to silence the voices in his mind and ground him back to earth. If only momentarily.

 

“Love,” Louis whispers, a breath of air so careful and tentative, and Harry has to remind himself that he is practically a stranger because the sound seems so familiar. Louis cards his fingers through Harry’s dripping hair, scratching his fingernails lightly in a way that feels comforting and pleasant. But Harry doesn’t curl up under his touch. Instead, he keeps his head rested against the tile wall, and closes his eyes again. Defeated.

 

“C’mon Harry, you can’t stay here, you’re freezing to death.” He prods at Harry’s hip, careful to avoid the bruises. His touch is pacific and calming. And warm.

 

It takes too much urging for Harry to give in. Eventually he does, standing complacent and allowing Louis to wrap him in a fluffy purple towel.

 

(Harry’s extreme apathy isn’t the type of aloofness to aspire to. It’s the aloofness that comes from not caring at all, not anymore. The aloofness that comes from giving up.)

 

It isn’t until Louis has dried him off with the towel and replaces his bloodied bandage with a dry, clean one, that Harry’s teeth begin to chatter from the cold.

 

“Almost done,” Louis assures in a voice that comes off as almost motherly, as he smooths his hands against the bandage in an attempt to make it stick. He gives it one last pat and then replaces the towel to Harry’s upper back and shoulders, stepping away. “I’m gonna take the couch tonight so that you can stay in my bed—you really need the sleep. And I put your bag in my room, so you’re all set to go. It’s the door at the end of the hall.”

 

Harry thinks that if he had been dealt any other hand of cards, given any other circumstances, he would’ve been ecstatic about staying the night at Louis’ flat. Louis—the really cute, really sweet, really beautiful guy who works at the bookstore Harry has been frequenting for months. Louis—the person who always makes him laugh and gives him book recommendations and teases him and makes his cheeks warm and calms his heart and causes his soul to feel safe. Louis. Louis!

 

No. The circumstances are different and he cannot change them. What’s done is done. Harry is crashing at Louis’ place not because Louis genuinely wants him here but because Louis is playing the role of a Good Samaritan by allowing Harry to stay over because he has no other place to go. Because Harry ran away from the only place he has to call home. Because Harry can’t stay with his boyfriend anymore. Because Harry’s boyfriend makes him do things Harry doesn’t want to do. Because Harry’s boyfriend hurts him.

 

(Again, there’s that whisper of a voice that screams, _you wanted it, YOU DESERVED IT_.)

 

Louis lingers in the threshold, hand on the white trim of the doorway. Hesitating. He avoids Harry’s eyes. “We’ll talk in the morning, alright love? If you need anything I’ll be in the living room.”

 

Harry nods, wrapping his towel around him more so that it actually covers him. For some reason he can’t really bring himself to open his mouth and say thank you, even though he really, really should. Can’t bring himself to say anything, for that matter.

 

“Alright, well…” Louis waves, halfway out of the room and still awkwardly lingering. And Louis is usually so garrulous and emotive and Harry thinks that maybe he sucked life out of him too. Harry keeps his gaze to the linoleum tiles on the floor. Louis spares Harry one last glance and then flees down the hallway.

 

Harry stands there and stares at his reflection in the mirror, unmoving, and experiences the sensation of feeling like he’s not really there anymore. Like he’s just a body, just a shell, apathetic, emotionless. Empty. Like someone cracked him open with a pick and a hammer. Peeled back the jagged edges and reached into him to pull out the smithereens that comprised his entire being. Stole them away.

 

But they must’ve put him back together. They must’ve pressed the edges to each other so tightly the pain was blinding. Stitched him up nice and tight with ink-black thread.

 

Good as new.

 

Except for all the emptiness.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis’ bedroom smells like cigarette smoke. Cigarette smoke and old books, and laundry detergent.

 

The sliding glass door which leads to the balcony is cracked open, letting chilly nighttime air into the room. Probably due to Louis’ smoking habit, although the potent smell of tobacco suggests he doesn’t make it outside most of the time. Harry’s cold enough as it is, so the first thing he does after he enters the room, before even glancing around, is hobble over to the door and shut it tightly. Immediately after, he spots his bag on the chair in the corner of the room and rushes over to it. He pulls on a jumper and a pair of joggers, foregoing the socks because he can’t find any in the jumbled contents of his bag. He must’ve forgotten them.

 

Finally dressed, he lets the towel hang on the chair, and peers around curiously. There’s a twin bed in the corner near the door to the balcony, covered in white sheets and a charcoal gray duvet. On the other side of the room is a closet, and a desk but the surface of it is buried by water bottles and textbooks and a pile of clothes that appear to be clean. The floor is much of the same, but it looks like Louis made an effort to tidy up while Harry was in the shower, as most of the clutter has been shoved against the walls. All in all, it’s a pretty standard bedroom for a man in his mid-twenties.

 

Of course the most intriguing aspect is the bookshelf. From floor to ceiling it towers over the room and takes up the majority of the wall across from the bed. Harry sits on the edge of the mattress, hands resting lightly on his knees, and stares at the vastness of Louis’ personal library.

 

Any book he could ever imagine, it’s there. The majority of them are one’s he’s never even heard of, which is almost disgruntling considering Harry nearly lives in libraries and bookshops. He searches for some sort of order in the chaos—any way that Louis might have possibly arranged these books. It’s not alphabetical, not chronological, not based on genre or topic or even color of spine. He can’t figure it out.

 

With one last glance at the monstrous bookshelf, he notices an empty spot near the bottom, where approximately two books would fit. Kneeling down, Harry runs his fingers along the books beside the only empty slot in the entire bookshelf and wonders which stories are missing. He notices that all the books to the left of the empty space are books he has read before: _The Kite Runner_ and _The Bell Jar_ and _Behind the Beautiful Forevers._

 

He’ll have to ask later. About the missing books and the strange organization. For now, he needs to sleep.

 

Carefully, as he has learned to move after years of sneaking around and sneaking away from The Monster, and as if he might disturb the order of the room by moving incorrectly, he crawls into bed underneath the heavy duvet and pulls it up to his nose. His hair is still wet and cold, and the drying ends tickle his face. He shivers before snuggling closer to the blankets, laying on his side and curling up into a ball. With his nose pressed to the soft pillowcase, he breathes in that same overwhelming fragrance of thick smoke mixed with laundry detergent mixed with something distinctly Louis.

 

It’s comforting.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Falling asleep is easy…

 

Staying asleep is the challenge.

 

Harry wakes up in the middle of the night, chest heaving and drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around him. He finds his arms are above his head, crossed at the wrist, almost as if he is bound to the headboard by invisible ropes. A bad habit, he presumes, feeling a galvanizing chill wrack his body, like muscle memory. From when The Monster would tie him up so he wouldn’t escape during the night. Sometimes it’s the only way he can fall asleep. His hands are clenched into tight fists, fingers numb from the constant pressure.

 

He can’t recall the dream that woke him up but he remembers the feeling, fear and entrapment and anxiety. Like desperately screaming for help but no sound leaving his mouth.

 

(The same feelings often arose when The Monster would come home and wrap his arms around Harry, even though his touch was always loving and caring at first.

The same feelings often arose in the bedroom when Harry was laid out on the mattress, submissive, complacent and docile, letting his boyfriend have his way because there was no other option.

 

When he would close his eyes and pretend he was floating away as rough hands gripped him tightly and hasty fingers forcibly opened him up, making him _hurt_.)

 

Now, the horrifying years he spent with The Monster seem like a bad dream—fuzzy, hazy, uncertain, like he’s not really sure if they happened to him or someone else entirely. It’s a form of repression, Harry thinks fearfully, recognizing that his body and mind are attempting to heal him autonomously by burying the memories. It doesn’t work though, because when he moves to untangle himself from the blankets he feels all the pain The Monster caused, and all the memories come swinging back in sharp clarity.

 

In an effort to block the torture from his mind he stumbles out of bed and makes his way out the sliding glass door to the balcony, resting his hands on the railing and closing his eyes. His heart is racing, and it pounds like an irregular drumbeat, flip-flopping in his chest. Like it’s trying to escape from his ribcage.

 

He gives himself a moment to breathe, calm down, and reground himself. He’s read about this before, this anxiety disorder that affects his heart directly—his mother has it, and his grandmother, and so on for eons probably. Superventricular tachycardia. A racing heart.

 

He knows he should try to breathe calmly and only pay attention to his body, ignoring the darkness of his thoughts and his mind. He tries to feel how his feet are pressing into the ground, calves sore from the run, knees shaking, thighs weak…

 

The moment passes and he still feels unsteady. But he heads back inside anyway and goes down the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. He flips on the light.

 

Greeted with the sight of his reflection, he stares back with dead eyes. He looks exhausted and like he was run over by a bus. Well, he almost was. Hit by a car is pretty close.

 

He lifts his shirt to survey his wounds. A surprised gasp slips from his mouth as he stares wide-eyed at the damage. His skin is more covered in bruises than it is uncovered—the usually black and blue mixed with hideous shades of violet, green and yellow, marking the harsh blows he experienced during the collision. Or maybe some of them were from The Monster, during sex. He doesn’t know. Can’t be sure. All of it looks the same. Hurts the same.

 

He has scratches everywhere on top of the bruises. Raised red lines trailing across his skin. A lot of them are from skidding across the road when he was hit, but the ones along his stomach clearly indicate the unmistakable use of fingernails. Feeling bile rise in his throat at the site, he has to look away from them. When his eyes land on the bruises shaped like fingertips he has to do the same. With the water from the sink turned as cold as it will go much like his shower earlier, he rinses the sweat off his face and dries himself with a towel.

 

He’s been avoiding the pain in his bum, that familiar feeling. He’s afraid to examine the magnitude of his injuries but he knows he must. With an audible sigh he reaches behind himself down the back of his sweats.

 

When he feels the warmth and liquidity of blood on the pad of his finger, tears prickle in the corner of his eyes, and the fear is there, too. He retrieves his hand and stares at the blood, sticky and hot and staining his skin the metallic color of rust.

 

This has happened before.

 

Too many times.

 

Whenever The Monster is feeling particularly rough or hasty and Harry is the only available thing to fuck. He’s always in a rush to get it in. Never takes his time, and if he does any preparation at all it’s severely lacking in thoroughness.

 

Harry has had enough painful sex to _ruin him forever_.

 

With a sinking feeling in his gut that just won’t go away, he cleans up his bum and washes his hands, all the blood evidence flowing down the drain. All the while he screams silent prayers in his head to any Gods that will listen, hoping with all his might that his luck will remain and he won’t get any STD’s. The risk is always magnified when The Monster makes him bleed, and he rarely, if ever, uses a condom. He knows he should really bite the bullet and go to the doctor. He knows they can help him.

 

But. He just. Can’t bring himself to go. Like scheduling an appointment would somehow make the torture real—solidify it in a way that cannot be remedied.

 

Harry wipes away his tears one last time, but still fills insurmountably hopeless.

 

So he shuffles back over to the toilet and sticks his fingers down his throat. A calming feeling washes over him when he strokes his gag reflex with his middle finger, almost lovingly. It takes ages but eventually he begins to heave, and then that takes ages too. It’s a while before he gets anything out, really just water and bile and spit. But for some reason he feels better.

 

Harry rinses his mouth and washes his hands.

 

He avoids his reflection as he exits the bathroom.

 

There is no way he’s going to fall asleep now, not with the stiffness of his sore joints, the burn of his upper back, and the ache deep in his core. He decides to head to the kitchen in search of some water to soothe his dry throat.

 

Movement in the corner of his eye on the way to the kitchen makes him jump. It’s Louis. Heart pounding, he tries not his features show how startled he is.

 

“You still up?”

 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he supplies, searching for a glass and finding one above the toaster after trying two other cabinets.

 

Louis hums in what Harry takes to be condolence. He is comfortably sitting on the coach in the living room, sinking down into the cushions with his feet propped up on the ottoman, completely at ease much unlike Harry. An open laptop rests on his thighs.

 

Harry finishes the water and sets the glass down, bracing his hands on the countertop. From the glowing numbers on the microwave he can see that it’s almost two AM.

 

“Wanna keep me company?”

 

Harry hesitates. Uneasy and completely unsure. Still shaking.

 

“C’mere,” Louis urges, patting the couch cushion next to him. “Keep me warm, please.”

 

Harry smiles a little, feeling his heart calm down even though he still feels so frightened and on edge. The fear never really ever goes away.

 

Because he gets the feeling that Louis wouldn’t have asked Harry to sit with him if Louis hadn’t known it is exactly what Harry needs, Harry laughs quietly and jokes, “is that all I’m good for?”

 

Louis rolls his eyes and then laughs too, face crinkling cutely. He looks like the actual sun—warm and golden and shining. He goes back to his typing and says completely seriously, “of course not, you doofus. You just seem like one of those people who’s always warm. Like a human furnace.”

_And you seem like one of those people who has no problem speaking their mind_ , Harry thinks, and wishes he had the courage to say it out loud. Harry’s known this to be true from his months spent at the bookstore, with Louis always saying whatever comes to mind without overthinking, much like Harry does all the time.

 

“What’re you writing?” Harry asks curiously once he’s seated beside Louis, pressed up against him at Louis’ slightly bossy command. Practically everything is touching—shoulders, arms, hips, thighs. It feels nice though. Comforting, not suffocating.

 

He glances over at Harry and smile. “A book.”

 

Harry’s mouth falls open a little in shock. He hadn’t known. When the reality of it sets in, he inquires, “What type of book?”

 

“A coming-of-age novel. It’s kind of trash. It’s finished, but my publisher wants me to change the ending because he doesn’t think it’ll sell otherwise. He thinks it’s too sad. I beg to differ, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

 

Harry hums thoughtfully in place of a response, resting his head on Louis’ shoulder and hoping he doesn’t mind. He hadn’t known that Louis is a writer. Let alone a writer with a _publisher_. Does that mean that he’s had a book published before?

 

Before he can ask, Louis quietly speaks. “Wanna tell me what happened?”

 

Harry debates pulling away but then snuggles closer instead. He should tell Louis, he really should. Really. But…

 

“Not really…”

 

Louis doesn’t give him any shit for it. “Okay.” Harry is unbelievably grateful.

 

They sit quietly together, the only sounds being the hum of the air conditioner and the gentle tap of Louis’ fingers on the keyboard. Harry keeps his cheek pressed to Louis’ shoulder, the feeling of his t-shirt soft and smooth, comforting.

 

Harry’s body is aching. But he feels the most comfortable he’s been since he packed his bags and booked it out of there. It’s lovely that Louis hasn’t pressured him to explain yet. Harry feels fondness rising in his chest at the thought of how caring Louis is, and he thinks he owes him for that—along with the million other things Louis has done for him. Like bandaging his shoulder and letting him stay the night, in Louis’ own bed nonetheless.

 

Harry couldn’t fall back asleep alone in Louis’ bed but he falls asleep now, tucked up against his side, cuddled up and warm and aching.

 

Dreamless.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

They wake up early, curled together on the couch, bodies angled uncomfortably, Louis’ laptop carelessly tossed to the side. Harry’s face is pressed into Louis’ neck, mouth open, and he’s drooling a little bit. He pulls away, in excruciating pain, and rubs his eyes. The beginnings of sunlight filter in through the blinds, golden light mixed with pink and red. The scintillation looks beautiful on Louis’ face. Angelic. Makes him glow.

 

Louis stirs, then sits up straighter, placing his hands on his knees and arching his back like a cat waking up from a nap. It’s oddly endearing.

 

“Shit, we fell asleep.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and even though he’s in incapacitating pain he feels warm and safe. He wants to curl up beside Louis again, nice and small, and fall asleep for the rest of eternity. Never wake up, ever again.

 

It’s tempting.

 

But Louis suggests Harry go back to Louis’ bed for a few more hours and Harry likes that idea only a little less than falling back asleep on the couch with Louis. So he stands up and follows Louis down the hall, both of them so sleep-ridden and exhausted it’s a wonder they make it to the bedroom. When they get there, Harry peels back the blanket and crawls underneath. After he’s situated, Louis pulls the duvet up to Harry’s chin, tucking him in like he’s a little kid.

 

“If you need me again, just tell me, ‘kay?”

_Again_ , he says and it is clear that he knew Harry wasn’t okay when he stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water. He had known Harry wasn’t okay, but he didn’t push for Harry to tell him why. And that in itself was incredibly kind of him.

 

“Mmhmmm,” Harry mumbles sleepily, eyes already closed again.

 

Louis cards his hand through Harry’s hair like it’s a last-minute decision, and Harry thinks that maybe Louis likes his hair a lot because he touches it more than the average person. In his sleepy haze, Harry decides he likes that.

 

It’s the last thought he has before he falls asleep again.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry sleeps straight through the day.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

(Time passes without him realizing it, ticking away with the hands of the clock.)

 

He spends hours in the drowsy haze of being less than half awake. Unable to pull himself to consciousness.

 

He’s so exhausted he feels weightless, so in pain he feels numb.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Even in his half-slumber, he cries.

 

(Perpetual tears drip down his face, creating shiny rivulets.

 

The saltwater drops reach his mouth and taste like the ocean.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t fully wake up until three o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun is shining in from the balcony door. Face wet and eyes rimmed red, he sits up and leans back on the heels of his hands. There’s a knock on the open door.

 

(For a small moment of insanity he thinks it’s The Monster. The anxiety fades when he sees Louis standing there, in a soft jumper, nervously playing with the sleeves.)

 

“Yeah?” He asks by way of inviting Louis in.

 

“Oh good, you’re up.” Louis walks in and steps up to the bed, hesitating. He’s holding a bowl in his hands.

 

Harry sighs heavily and flops back into the blankets, quickly regretting is decision as his entire weight lands on his back and a blinding pain hits him like a train, the aftermath lingering uncomfortably. He tries not to let it show.

 

“You feeling okay? I brought you cereal.”

 

“Alright,” is Harry’s response, opening one eye to peer up at Louis who is looking down at him all concerned. “Thank you for the cereal.”

 

He carefully sets the ceramic bowl on the nightstand. The small sound makes Harry jump.

 

“I was worried about you.”

 

“I’m okay. Thank you for letting me stay.” There, he finally said it.

 

Louis smiles softly. “Of course.”

 

They stare at each other for an awkward moment. Harry has no idea what the fuck he should do. Probably get up and leave, is what he should do. He’s already overstayed his welcome. He should really get out of Louis’ hair. But. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

 

“Um,” he begins, super hesitant and all caught-up in Louis’ eyes. They’re _so_ blue. Like, _really_ blue. “Um, I should probably explain now.”

 

“If you want to,” Louis offers, giving him an out.

 

Harry really wants to take it but he also knows he really needs to explain. So he sits up, scooting to the corner of the bed to press his back up against the junction between the headboard and the wall. Louis sits down in front of him, crisscross-applesauce with his hands patiently folded in his lap.

 

“Um… I don’t really know where to start…” He admits, feeling stupid. The cereal is getting soggy on the nightstand.

 

Louis pauses. “How about I tell you what I think is going on, and then you can correct me if I’m wrong?”

 

That would make it easier, right? Harry nods in affirmation. If Louis already knows then there’s no point in retelling the story, reliving the torture…

 

“Okay, well. You got hit by a car yesterday.”

 

It’s kind of funny. Harry laughs a little. “Yeah.”

 

“You were running from something?”

 

Harry looks down at the bedspread, embarrassed. He feels so childish, so juvenile, so _young_. Weak, little, like a kid that needs to be looked after.

 

“Not something, though. Someone. Your boyfriend, right? He hurts you.” Louis reaches forward slowly, silently asking to touch Harry’s neck. He allows, shyly tilting his head to the side, and Louis gently ghosts his fingertips over the deep purple hickeys on Harry’s skin. Despite how tender the skin is, how sensitive and sore, it feels really, really good. Like something soft and warm after years and years of cruelty and neglect.

 

“How long has he been abusive?”

 

Louis’ light, gentle touch on Harry’s skin is a stark contrast to Harry’s memories of the previous night with The Monster, and even all the nights before that. He kissed him with the intention of marking him, of branding him _his_ , sucking harshly with purpose. The marks are too gruesome to be called _love bites_ —indeed they are just another signification of Harry’s belongingness to The Monster. Blatant bruises that mark him, claim him, like a collar or a tag. A sign that says _taken_. A label that means _supplicant_.

_How long has he been abusive?_

 

Since the beginning, maybe. When Harry was young and innocent and too naïve for his own good. His first semester of taking classes at uni and he had already met an attractive bloke right off the bat. An attractive bloke who was interested in Harry, no less. No matter the warning bells that rang clear when he considered the idea that a fourth-year was fixated on him.

 

Fresh blood.

 

He was four and a half years older than Harry and had no business messing around with someone as young as him. Harry let it happen anyway, enamored and soon deeply in love.

 

At first Harry thought the possessiveness and jealousy were normal, and maybe even a bit attractive. He felt wanted and special because his boyfriend loved him and cared about him. Wanted Harry all to himself.

 

That was how it always happened, wasn’t it? Harry lives in the cliché, the overused tropes of poorly-written horror and fear. He feels oddly detached from his life, like it isn’t really his, like he’s just watching a movie with characters he hardly knows, too far away to even care…

 

One month into the relationship and Harry had already given his entirety to The Monster, his virginity stolen away even though he had felt, at the time, that he had given it up willingly. Now he regrets it of course, and maybe even pins the initial sex as the turning point that led to the downward spiral of their relationship. He was young, too young, not ready, not at all.

 

Harry hadn’t known it at the time, but what they were practicing in the bedroom was classified under the category of BDSM, and it transformed into something more severe and dangerous every time they had sex. To Harry it was just normal. It took two years for Harry to realize what he had gotten himself into. By then it was too late.

 

Harry is naturally submissive. Always has been, but the way he practiced it with The Monster was neither healthy nor safe, and he had no room to explore before diving in headfirst. The first time they ever had sex there was intentional infliction of pain on Harry. The second time included bondage. Way too intense for someone who had been a virgin a week earlier.

 

(The shock of the severity screwed up his mind, truly breaking him.

 

It would have been traumatic even if it hadn’t been forced on him.)

 

So, how long has he been abusive? _Since the beginning_ , Harry thinks, remembering all the times he was cornered and in pain, boxed in with nowhere to go. Aching and alone.

 

And he thought it was normal.

_Since the beginning since the beginning since the beginning_. He should’ve known. He should’ve left sooner.

 

It’s his fault, isn’t it? Harry knows The Monster was cruel but he also knows that he himself had a part in it. It’s a two-way street, isn’t it? The trigger doesn’t pull itself. The abuse couldn’t have happened without the abused as much as it couldn’t have happened without the abuser.

 

And The Monster has been abusive from the very start. Harry should say this, but he can’t bring himself to admit the truth out loud, especially not to Louis. Louis, the man who is too lovely and too kind to be marred by this horror. Harry should tell him the truth, or at the very least not be evasive. But. All he can bring himself to do is say, “a while.”

 

Louis exhales, eyes big and wide, scooting closer and lightly laying his hand on Harry’s pajama-clad knee. “Oh Harry,” he breathes, and the look in his eyes is different from pity and Harry relishes in that realization. The look in his eyes is different because it is the distinction between sympathy and empathy, between looking at Harry like he’s weak and broken and looking at him like he’s just been dealt a bad hand of cards. The distinction is important. It makes him feel like he’s more human.

 

After that, the words flow out of Harry like a faucet that will not turn off—unstoppable. The story, woven in truth and fear, escapes with little struggle and soon Harry finds himself telling Louis the gist everything. His extreme self-disclosure includes everything from the very first time he laid eyes on The Monster to the very end, when Harry was left curled up in bed, broken and defiled.

 

(Yet, there are still some memories too dark for Harry to say out loud. So he skips over the brutal details, ignoring them for later.

 

When _later_ arrives, he folds them up and stows them away deep within the marrow of his bones. He’s afraid they’ll cause conflict in the future, and the bad memories linger like a laundry list of things hanging over his head. The skeletons in his closet are too horrifying.

 

He revels in them, completely alone.

 

Not a soul knows.)

 

“You’re not broken,” Louis insists when Harry says so. He shakes his head sadly, looking like he’s willing Harry to understand or believe him. “You’re not broken Harry, I promise. You’re fine… you’re fine, it’s okay,” and then the streaming repetition of _it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay_. Quiet and soft and comforting like a lullaby.

 

It isn’t okay.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry’s recollection is graphic, violent, revolting—the farthest from okay—but. Louis sits and listens anyway. Intent and patient. He keeps his face passive and only lets tiny emotions slip through: a brief flicker of shock or sadness that lingers for a moment before he sets his face again.

 

(A flash of lightning and then it’s gone.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

When Harry is finished Louis crawls even closer and taps his fingertips against the bow of Harry’s cheek, stroking the smooth skin reverently. So careful and so soft. Like he’s touching a famous sculpture in an art museum, the marble beneath his fingers centuries old and frighteningly fragile. He touches Harry likes he’s afraid he’ll crumble.

 

“You’re an angel, Harry Styles. You know that right?”

 

Harry shakes his head in disagreement, looking down, ashamed. Louis’ hand falls from Harry’s skin. His tears are falling freely now, dripping down Harry’s cheeks and splashing onto the bed. Saltwater drops to create saltwater rivulets that flow into the saltwater sea. He makes no move to brush them away, knowing new ones will soon take their place. A saltwater storm, each drop representing his pain, his fear, his trauma.

 

“Nobody deserves that—especially not you. Harry, listen to me okay? I’m serious. _You did nothing wrong_.”

 

Harry keeps shaking his head, crying. His vision is blurring with overflowing tears and there’s pain, fear, shame. Humiliation that cuts like a knife, but even worse is the burning of his actual physical scars, the ghosts of fingerprints lingering on his skin. The taste of blood lingering in the air, mixed with pungent sweat and The Monster’s cum.

 

Louis engulfs him in a hug. Harry feels feather-light, as if he’s floating away on a cloud. But there’s the heavy anchor dragging him down—the unforgettable weight of the defilement and cruelty.

 

And he thinks:

_I asked for it, I asked for it, I asked for it I asked for it I asked for it._

 

And in his head The Monster’s voice:

_YOU BROUGHT IT UPON YOURSELF._

 

Yet through the cacophony of sounds, Louis’ voice rises about the dissonance:

 

“Listen to me, love. I know bad when I see it and that man was the embodiment of evil. But you’re safe now, okay? You’re safe now and I promise I won’t let him hurt you anymore. _You are strong_ , and I know you don’t believe me, but the proof is that you were strong enough to get away from him. And now you’re free.”

 

Louis pets his hands on Harry’s hair like he was doing before, and the action is so soothing that Harry cannot help but to sink into it. He lets himself fall deeper into the hug and wonders why The Monster’s embrace never felt this warm.

 

Louis is so gentle. An angel on earth, maybe. His guardian. Lovely and protective, caring. So benevolent.

 

( _Benevolent Louis_ , he thinks, _and broken Harry_.)

 

“You can stay here as long as you need, okay?” Louis whispers, holding Harry a little tighter yet still carefully avoiding the worst of his wounds. “Don’t worry about figuring out where you’re gonna go, we’ll figure it out together I promise. In the meantime you can stay with me, I don’t mind.” He pulls away from Harry to smile at him sweetly.

 

He’s such an eldest sibling, Harry thinks, as he lets Louis hold him in his arms. He’s comforting and reassuring and patient. So kind.

 

“In fact I love company, okay Harry? So don’t feel bad about staying here.”

 

Harry just whimpers, feeling a momentous amount of despair, face pressed into Louis’ chest, arms wound around his back with no intention of letting go anytime soon. Louis doesn’t seem to mind, as he strokes Harry’s back gently to soothe him. The undeniable sensation of protection and security washes over him, making him feel _warm_.

 

Warm. Warm. Warm. Like the glow of a fire hidden in the hearth, or a steaming mug of tea in his hands. Heat that seeps into his skin, slowly at first. Warming his insides. Straight to his bones.

 

“You’re not alone,” Louis whispers into his hair, warm breath like summertime air.

 

(If Harry closes his eyes he can imagine he is back in his dream, lying in the soft grass with the golden sun shining down on his bare skin.

 

In this unreality there are no humans.

 

In this unreality there is no agony.)

 

“You’re not alone Harry, you hear me? You’re safe here.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Trauma lingers.

 

Like the mulish ache of a bruise. Like the stubborn stain of blood on carpet.

 

It never really goes away.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Hours later, Louis reenters the room to find Harry lying on his back on top of the duvet, ankles crossed and arms behind his head. He’s staring up at the ceiling, deep in thought, but he looks more lucid than before. Still, he’s lying as if he’s tied to the bed like a prisoner—but it’s implicit, almost as if he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

 

“Hey, Harry.”

 

“Hi.”

 

“You good?”

 

“Yeah. Just thinking.”

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Louis asks, crossing the room to the bed.

 

Harry sits up, and Louis is deeply surprised to find that there is an actual smile on his face.

 

“Your bookshelf. I can tell you’ve organized it in some way… I just can’t figure out how.”

 

“Oh.” Louis had not been expecting that. He chews on his bottom lip and contemplates telling a lie. The truth slips out anyway. Doesn’t it always? “All the shelves except the bottom two are books that I either need to read or have already read, and they’re in order by the date they were given or recommended to me, or the date that I found them.”

 

Harry peers curiously at the large bookshelf that engulfs the entire wall. “What about the bottom shelves, then?”

 

“Those are all books that I’ve read already, and I’m saving them for other people who I think should read them. I, um, have a shelf for my mum, and one for my mate Liam—you know Liam, right? The lad who works at the vegan bagel shop next door to the bookstore?”

 

Harry hums thoughtfully, the smile creeping back onto his face. “What about the bottom right shelf?”

 

“What about it?” Louis asks, knowing where this is going. He feigns innocence as a defense mechanism. The moment seems glaringly intimate, despite its triviality.

 

“Who’s it for?”

 

He sighs. Harry deserves someone who cares about him, doesn’t he?

 

The answer is yes, yes he does. God yes, Harry deserves all the love and care in the world. Louis is determined to drag up every ounce of affection he has, determined to steal the universe away just to gift it to Harry. Harry, the angel, the sweetest purest creature on earth.

 

So he smiles softly and says, quite unashamedly, “it’s for you.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

 

They spend their time quietly together.

 

Days pass, and Harry sleeps for most of them.

 

Louis takes care of him, tending to his wounds, cooking his meals. Listening to his pain and torture and heartbreak.

 

Harry mainly stays in Louis’ bedroom, curled up in bed like something irreversibly broken. He cries almost constantly, even in his sleep.

_Is this normal_ , Louis thinks, for _someone who has been abused as Harry has been abused?_

 

And the more pressing question: Will he be okay?

 

Louis is gentle, caring, and careful not to frighten Harry or scare him away. He’s determined to show affection and softness in every way possible. Determined to show Harry that as bad as his past may be, life doesn’t have to suck.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Healing is strange in the way that it doesn’t get easier. It’s a week later, Harry has visited his professors a few days ago and already turned in his thesis, and he’s about to graduate with his diploma in two weeks. He’s still staying with Louis, still crying all day and night, and hasn’t left the flat aside from turning in his thesis. The frightening truth is that he’s just as broken as the day Louis found him.

 

“Hey, you feeling okay Haz?”

 

He’s sitting on the bed, staring his reflection in the mirror across the room. Unmoving. Unresponsive.

 

It’s Saturday—more than a week since he ran away. It hasn’t gotten easier. The first few days all he did was sleep, but now he’s too fidgety to sleep. And too exhausted to do anything else.

 

“Did you eat today baby?”

 

Still no response. Louis approaches him carefully so as not to startle him.

 

(It happens anyways.)

 

He slowly raises his hand to tap the boy on his shoulder. The response is immediate—in a frightened instant he shrieks, and has shoved himself back against the wall, as far away from Louis as he can get. He’s curled up into a tight ball, knees to his chest and face burrowed in his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, rocking back and forth. Scared and afraid like a cornered animal. Making himself small.

 

Louis backs away in shock, and even as far away as he is he can clearly see that Harry is shaking. And crying, too. Crying, always crying.

 

From a week of experience Louis knows that during moments like this, Harry needs to be held. It’s less common for people to want physical contact when they’re frightened (or so the Internet says, because Louis has researched this), but Louis has learned that Harry is different and he can calm him down by constant pressure and warmth. He crawls across the bed to sit beside Harry and wrap him in his arms. He squeezes tightly.

 

Harry fights at first, and then eventually goes pliant, limp in Louis’ arms. Louis wonders how many times The Monster did this very same thing—cornered Harry into submission. Louis pulls him in tighter and strokes his hair, not saying anything for the truth that he has lost the words to say. What do you tell someone who is so deeply traumatized? What do you tell someone who has lost all hope and trust? If there are any words, they evade him.

 

It takes hours for Harry to calm down.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

That night, Harry apologizes as Louis brings him dinner—a salad of romaine lettuce, grilled chicken, and mozzarella cheese. Not the most gourmet meal in the universe, but Louis tried his very best. He hands over the bowl and then a bottle of salad dressing in addition to a fork and a napkin.

 

“I’m sorry for um- you know, what happened… and I-“

 

“It’s okay baby. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Not your fault.”

 

Harry looks embarrassed. Louis tells him not to be.

 

They watch romantic comedies together until they fall asleep.

 

(Harry has always enjoyed the comfort of re-watching movies he has already seen before, the comfort of knowing the ending before the story even begins.

 

The comfort of not having to worry about the conflict because he knows that in the end everything will work out.

 

He wishes real life worked that way.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Later, Harry wakes up very early to _warmth_.

 

Something warm clinging to his back, something heavy around his waist, something soft against his skin. The sun is only just rising now but in moments the room will be engulfed by golden light.

 

In an instant he can feel the panic rising within him, but as he realizes he’s encompassed by Louis he forces himself to swallow it down. They must’ve fallen asleep together, he thinks, partway through the third movie. Now Harry is lying curled up in bed with a lovely boy clinging to his back. His chest is pressed to Harry’s back, nose to his neck so that every time he exhales a warm puff of air flutters across Harry’s skin, making him tingle.

 

He lays like that for a while, half paralyzed and half comforted, and attempts to calm down. He focuses on the feel of Louis’ heartbeat against him, and finds that he likes it a lot.

 

It isn’t until he feels like his bladder is going to burst that he tries to wiggle out of Louis’ arms without waking him up. Of course it doesn’t work—Louis wakes anyways, despite all of Harry’s arduous efforts, and gently runs his fingertips along Harry’s arm.

 

“Everything okay?” Louis’ soft morning voice asks, and Harry looks over at him to watch his eyelashes flutter in the waxing light. In a way he looks strikingly inhuman—an angel without visible wings. So impossibly beautiful.

 

“Yeah, just- bathroom.”

 

“Oh okay. Are you coming back?”

 

He looks so hopeful that Harry has no choice but to say yes.

 

He has to peel himself away from the bed, but once he’s out he rushes down the hall to the bathroom because the air is frigid and the sooner he gets back in bed, the better. He pees, washes his hands, and brushes his teeth with the toothbrush Louis found for him. Then he scampers back to Louis’ bedroom—the place he has made his temporary home for over a week now—and crawls back into bed shivering.

 

They sleep until nine in the morning, when Louis wakes up Harry by sweetly tweaking his nose.

 

“I can’t let you sleep forever, you know.”

 

Harry pouts at him. “Sure you can.”

 

“You’ve been hiding out for an entire week and it’s my responsibility to make sure you don’t turn into a hermit. You’ve gotta get out of bed today.”

 

“I went to my classes,” Harry retorts, pulling the blankets tightly around him so he’s wrapped up like a burrito, only his head poking out.

 

“Only because you wouldn’t get your degree if you didn’t,” Louis argues, tapping the mess of blankets where Harry’s knees are bent. “C’mon, it’s Saturday, we’ve gotta do something. Anything you want as long as it’s outside of this flat.”

 

“We can sit on the balcony?” Harry asks hopefully. The past week he’s been spending some time out on the balcony attached to Louis’ bedroom for the sake of enjoying some fresh air. He likes it, lying on the paved ground with a blanket wrapped around him, looking up at the calming sky whether it be blue or gray and listening to the sounds of the city. He feels safe, suspended in the air on the slab of cement, untouchable by the world.

 

He likes looking up, at the thick ceiling of clouds that almost always presides over London. Even through the clouds, the sky is sometimes so bright that it hurts to look at it, so he’ll close his eyes and let the muggy air cover him like a heavy woolen blanket.

 

“No Harry, that doesn’t count. And stop pouting—it’s not gonna work on me. C’mon, I wanna do something fun. Outside of this flat. With you.”

 

Harry buries his face in the duvet and groans like a ghost in a haunted mansion, long and unwinded, unrelenting. Louis drags him out of bed by the arms (albeit quite gently, as he’s still worried he’s going to hurt Harry or startle him. The ease to which he complies is frightening).

 

“Get dressed.”

 

“Where are we going, then?” Harry asks, still stubbornly folding his arms in front of his chest. Harry can’t say no to him though, not really, not when it comes down to it—and Louis knows this.

 

“We’re gonna get breakfast and then we’ll walk around a bit and maybe get you some new clothes? And then we’ll see a movie.”

 

Harry bites his lip, feeling uncertain. The day’s plans sound fun and enjoyable, but. Harry is uneasy.

 

“What movie?” He inquires, because he’s too embarrassed and ashamed to tell Louis that he’s afraid of going outside. Afraid of leaving this flat.

 

“You can choose. Any movie you want, we’ll watch it. Sound good?”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

They spend the day in the city, eating breakfast at a small, quaint coffee shop to begin their expedition. They order earl grey tea and raspberry pastries, sitting in a small booth beside the window, observing the people who walk past and complimenting random things about each stranger they see. Harry likes this, this gentle kindness, this anonymous benevolence. He thinks that maybe if more people did this very thing the world would be kinder, softer in a way. The harsh edges worn down by compliments and positivity meant for nothing more than the sake of compassion.

 

After they eat they walk around the city, enjoying the beauty of Hyde Park and halting their easy ambling only to lie in the grass or dip their fingertips into the fountains. Harry admits aloud that the fresh air feels nice, refreshing in a way that is incomparable.

 

Louis smiles in the passing sunlight, gold streaming down on his face. “I knew you’d feel better.” In a few minutes the clouds will overtake the sun, so for now Harry relishes in the warm feeling on his skin, like tiny angel kisses.

 

“Thank you,” Harry breathes quietly as they’re walking, out of the park now and back to the street, on their way to the tiny movie theater a few blocks away.

 

Louis looks at him again, bumping their hands as they walk, and from the look on his face Harry can tell that Louis knows what he means. He is not just thankful for the breakfast which Louis paid for, nor the relaxing walk in the park. No, he is thanking Louis for much more than that—for allowing Harry to stay at his flat, no questions asked, for more than a week. He’s not leaving anytime in the near future, has been avoiding searching flats to rent for himself.

 

(The truth is that Harry feels lost. He’s a vagabond in his own world, this world he created for himself when he left for university four years ago. This world he built with his own hands, when he met The Monster.

 

He used to like the idea of his own reinvention, his new identity, his novel life. He used to like the idea of dating a boy older and more experienced than he, a boy who took care of him even through his abuse. He used to like the idea of the two of them, always alone together, spending their holidays together, ignoring all familial obligations.

 

But now he feels lost, broken, abandoned, unloved. At least when he was with The Monster he knew he had love, however tarnished it may have been.

 

That was why he had stayed, wasn’t it? The fear was enough to keep him stranded in The Monsters flat, the threats of hurting his family—the very family Harry hadn’t seen in years. But still he could have left if he wanted to. He always had the opportunity to leave.

 

And yet he had stayed, and the only explanation Harry could think of was that he must truly love The Monster. Must have loved The Monster so much he couldn’t leave, loved him until Harry’s heart was broken and beaten and torn, bruised like his own skin. Abused and still loved. Sick and twisted and neglected.

 

He’s burned the bridges that led to his family; after renouncing them for so many years he has no hope of going back home. He doesn’t have a single phone number, a person he can call. His mom, sister, step-dad. Family friends. All washed away, deleted from his life with a single keystroke.

 

All he had left was the single address of his childhood home, the address he’s had memorized since he was a toddler. He’ll never forget it, not in a million years.

 

But it’s too late to go back.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

The movie theater is crowded, per usual on a Saturday afternoon. People are milling around everywhere, getting popcorn, filling up their drinks, reconnecting with friends. Harry is overwhelmed, undeniably so, as soon as they enter.

 

Louis notices, he never fails to notice when Harry is uncomfortable. He links his arm around Harry’s bicep in a friendly, casual way, not mentioning it. But Harry knows that he is doing it for Harry’s benefit alone. Harry is grateful.

 

(Always grateful, always thankful. In debt to Louis no doubt.)

 

There are many movies to choose from, but as Harry browses the selection he finds there is not one he really wants to see. All of the interesting ones are too violent, and Harry really doesn’t have the stomach for violence right now. They settle on a cheesy romantic comedy ( _the feel-good movie of the summer_ , one of the posters chimes) and split the cost of the tickets even though Louis’ offers to pay again, because he knows Harry doesn’t have a job and he had been essentially living out of The Monster’s pocket.

 

(A few years ago his mum would send a check to Harry every month for money to use at uni, but as he began ignoring her calls the money became less frequent. The last time he reached out to her, he had coldly informed her that he didn’t need the money, that she should stop sending the checks because he didn’t need them. She kept sending them, but Harry returned them as soon as they came. After he missed the holidays that year, the mail stopped.

 

Now he’s truly on his own.)

 

They buy popcorn to share and two small lemonades before handing their tickets to the worker at the podium and entering the theater. Harry stumbles in the dark, causing Louis to have to stifle his laughter as they walk up the stairs, searching for two available seats. When Harry looks around he sees that the theater is full of couples in addition to large groups of women having a ladies’ day out. Yet even then Harry and Louis don’t seem so out of place—they are so comfortable with each other, so familiar, that it doesn’t feel strange.

 

Louis falls asleep right before the awkward but comical sex scene (thank God), and Harry watches on, suddenly alone and wondering if the interaction portrayed on screen is how sex is supposed to be. It’s awkward but not uncomfortable, and familiar and friendly in a way that Harry’s experiences have never been.

 

He wants to ask Louis about it later but he’s afraid it’ll upset him, like it sometimes does when Harry blurts something out and Louis eyes widen in near disbelief, almost as if saying _I can’t believe that happened to you_ before he wraps Harry up in his arms, whispering _I’m sorry_ a million times over. Harry knows he should probably keep the disturbing memories to himself but sometimes they press against his ribcage until he opens his mouth and lets them out. He thinks that maybe some memories are too painful for him to even speak out loud, and so he keeps those tucked down deep inside, repressed but bothering him like a constant ache in his bones.

 

Louis’ head is on Harry’s shoulder when the movie ends and Harry isn’t sure how he fell asleep in the first place because it wasn’t even that boring. Harry pats his thigh until he wakes up, disoriented at first, then laughing and apologizing to Harry for falling asleep.

 

They stay for the entirety of the credits, watching as names scroll past for nearly five minutes. They comment on the pretty ones, the strange ones, and the funny ones, and Louis leads the conversation on names he wants for his future children. Harry just sits and admires his enthusiasm, his passion, his hope for the future.

 

“What about you, Harold, what do you want to name _your_ kids?” Louis inquires once they’re exiting the theater after the credits stop and the lights flicker on, a worker trudging in with a broom and dustpan to clean up the mess of popcorn and candy wrappers beneath the seats.

 

“I- I don’t know,” Harry stutters. He finds that his words are honest.

 

“Really? You’ve never thought about it before?”

 

“I-“ He can’t think of anything, any reason aside from the truth. So he looks at his shoes and says, in a quiet voice, “he didn’t want kids.”

 

“What?” Louis asks, startled, like he hasn’t yet considered this dreary truth until now. He looks again like the breath has been punched out of him and he mumbles softly, “oh.” Again, this is when he would wrap his arms around Harry and apologize for the sins that aren’t his own.

 

“It’s okay,” Harry rushes, desperate to be off the topic. He wants to go back into the theater, wants to watch another movie—any movie, even if it’s scary or violent—just to escape his real life. He likes to live in the unreality of fiction, likes the read and watch movies and daydream to escape his thoughts, his life, his being.

 

“Well, do _you_ want kids?” Louis asks, pondering and inquisitive.

 

“Ehm, I mean…” He hasn’t really ever allowed himself to think about it, because The Monster had said no straight away and that was that, end of discussion, no room for argument. “I, ehm, yeah. Yeah, I would like kids someday.”

 

Louis beams at him.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

After the movie theater they get frozen yogurt in place of lunch, eating outside at one of the pretty iron tables and stealing spoonfuls of each other’s dessert. Harry has strawberry with slices of various fruits decorating the top, while Louis opts for triple chocolate with fudge and m&m’s, and when the flavors mix together in his mouth it tastes like chocolate covered strawberries. He decides that when they’re together they’re even better than on their own.

 

(He thinks that maybe the same could be said for two certain people who happen to be sharing froyo right now.)

 

They walk down to an art gallery and spend a long time wandering around the quiet rooms, pointing out paintings and sculptures they think the other will like, standing and observing in silent contemplation. Harry is especially fond of a room with a special collection of Renaissance paintings. He finds that the keen attention to detail and the pure grandeur of the scenes take his breath away.

 

They stay for hours, lingering until they get tired, and then exiting the down the marble stairs back to the street with is bustling with Saturday traffic.

 

“We should stop at Tesco’s on the way home,” Louis suggests, followed by a yawn that he doesn’t bother to cover. They’ve had quite the lengthy—albeit enjoyable—day in the city.

 

Harry agrees, yawning as well, and they make the detour on their way home.

 

It’s cold inside the grocery store, the cool air conditioning piping through the vents, making Harry shiver. He wishes he had a hoodie to put on.

 

Louis didn’t bring the list with him, so they spend a long time wandering through the aisles, putting the items they need in the cart. It’s a strange sort of intimacy, Harry thinks, grocery shopping together. Knowing what they want, what they need, thinking ahead to the days they’ll spend together, the meals they’ll cook for each other. Harry drags Louis to the produce section and teaches him how to choose between the fruits and vegetables, how to tell if they’re ripe or bruised or on the way to rotten. Louis yanks him to the cereal aisles and discusses the merits of Cocopops compared to Curiously Cinnamon.

 

The Cocopops are on the very top shelf. When Louis reaches up to grab the largest box he can find, he discovers they’re just out of reach. His fingertips graze against the chilly metal of the shelf as he steps onto his toes to grab them. Harry stands behind him and laughs, very amused.

 

“Oh, fuck off,” he bites, giving up and turning around, folding his arms in front of himself defensively. He glares at Harry expectantly. “C’mon you big oaf, go make your giraffe legs useful.”

 

Harry is still laughing when he reaches up and grabs the cereal box with ease. When he looks back at Louis, he sees that his eyes are wide. His jaw is set tightly as he glances down the aisle. There’s something strange in his expression, something Harry can’t place. It’s fleeting.

 

“Wha-“ Harry begins to ask, turning to look at what Louis is looking at.

 

He’s cut off by Louis yanking the box from his hands and tossing it in the cart carelessly, pushing his shoulder so he turns back around before he can see anything. “Hey why don’t you go pick up some desert, like a pie or something? I have to go to the bathroom.” He shoves Harry and the trolly in the opposite direction, pushing him out of the cereal aisle.

 

“Um, okay-“ Harry mutters, quite honestly pretty startled. He does as he’s told, looking back only to see Louis storming down the aisle with purpose towards the back of the store, before Harry follows orders and heads to the desert section.

 

(It takes him far too long to realize the bathrooms are near the checkout, in the front.)

 

The concerned thoughts fade to the back of his mind when he enters the bakery section of the store, the smell of freshly baked bread immediately drawing him in. He browses the aisles of bread and pastries and cakes and pies and cookies, wondering what type of dessert Louis likes. He ends up picking up a multitude of treats: a dozen sugar cookies shaped like butterflies and hand-piped with pink frosting, mini red velvet cupcakes with heart decals decorating the top, and two half-pies—chocolate turtle and cherry.

 

He thinks ice cream would be good with the pies, so he heads to the freezer section along the back wall of the store. When he gets there he sees Louis standing in front of the frozen pizzas, his stance defensive, arms crossed over his chest, feet spread wide, and he thinks, _that’s weird, wasn’t he going to the bathroom?_

 

“Hey Louis, I got the-“ he begins, but the rest of the words die in his mouth instantly. Because, because… because.

 

Because The Monster is right there, standing next to the TV dinners.

 

His eyes land on Harry.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

The world stops spinning.

 

He looks angry for a moment, lips curling into a snarl. Like a beast.

 

The anger turns to something different, something predatory.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry cannot move. He cannot, he cannot. He is stuck, carved in marble like the statues from the museum he and Louis visited today. His arms are frozen in front of him, hands clutching the handle of the trolley, eyes wide in fear.

 

Fear. The world is driven by fear.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

THREE METERS AWAY, THE MONSTER STANDS.

 

READY TO PURSUE.

 

READY TO ENTRAP.

 

READY TO SLAUGHTER.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

READY TO KILL.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

(He is paralyzed with dread, horror, panic.

 

For a moment a memory slips through his otherwise empty mind. In an instant it all comes rushing back.

 

“C U T  Y O U R S E L F  O R    I  ‘  L  L    D  O    I  T  .”

 

The words echo in his mind.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

There’s a kitchen knife in Harry’s hands, the big one used to prepare meat for dinner, sharp enough to easily slice off the fat from a slab of pork or beef. The metal glints in the dim light, a weapon’s smile that is blinding like the sun.

 

His hands shake as he brings the metal to the milky skin of his inner thigh.

 

Draws three deep, flaming red lines that ooze blood.

 

Like tiger stripes.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Under the bright florescent lights of the grocery store, Harry stands, and implicitly falls pliant. Head down instinctively, hands behind his back, neck tilted to the side so his skin is exposed.

 

Submissive.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis acts quickly. He grabs Harry by the arm, grip hard enough to leave a bruise, and drags him away, nearly running. They stumble down the aisles of the grocery store, shopping cart long forgotten.

 

Harry has completely shut down. He is putting no effort into their escape, no effort into anything. He feels as if he is no longer in control of his own body. He feels as if he isn’t even real. As if this is all a dream. A nightmare.

 

They start running once they’re outside. Just like Harry had the night he first ran from The Monster. On the crowded sidewalk they weave in and out of Saturday night’s pedestrians, not stopping to apologize when they run into people. Harry and Louis both aren’t much of runners but they run anyways, sprinting faster than Harry has ever run before, all the way back to Louis’ flat. Not looking back.

 

Louis tugs Harry inside, quickly locking the door and sliding the deadbolt inside. He rushes around and shuts all the windows they had left open, locking them as well. As soon as everything is locked and secure, he hurries back to Harry.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he keeps saying, over and over and over again. Chanting it like a prayer. _I’m so sorry I’m so sorry I’m so sorry._

 

But Harry isn’t listening.

 

He’s drifting, dropping, stuck in subspace.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis gently guides Harry to the bedroom with ease. He is so acquiescent, so compliant, that the task takes only a minute. He grasps Harry’s hands and leads him to the bed, helping him down. Harry’s eyes are glassy, tears dripping down his face, but he doesn’t wipe them away. He doesn’t move, except for what Louis nudges him to do so, lying down on the mattress, laying his arms above his head like he’s waiting for Louis to tie him to the bed. He doesn’t close his eyes, just stares up at nothing, eyes dazed and vitreous, mirrorlike.

 

If Louis hadn’t done his research, he might have been extremely frightened (as opposed to only slightly frightened) or just purely confused at the sight of Harry like this, lying completely open and docile and unmoving. But he’s spent the whole past week researching, staying up late on his laptop after Harry falls asleep, searching a variety of key words and phrases: domestic abuse, sexual abuse, emotional manipulation, rape, sadism and masochism, BDSM, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, trauma.

 

He’s learned a lot, and not all of it applies to Harry’s situation but the information is helpful, always helpful.

 

Here’s what he knows:

 

  * Harry was abused. Physically, emotionally, and sexually. His case is indeed considered _domestic_ abuse, but the term is not the most useful for Louis to research because almost all the cases described on line are heteronormative and deal with husbands abusing their wives. Gay relationships are not extremely different, but Louis thinks the variation is important because Harry does indeed have the physical strength to fight back against his abuser.
  * Harry was raped. A crime committed again and again. The line that separates consensual from nonconsensual is sometimes stick-thin and blurred, but Louis is certain that Harry was raped, even in the beginning.
  * He is traumatized, and he most likely has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. He has nightmares, he flinches at sudden movements, he is jittery and always looking around like he’s waiting for his abuser to find him again. He has difficulty sleeping, he startles at loud noises, and he has trouble concentrating and zones out more than the average person. Sometimes he sits for hours, still, unmoving, completely numb.
  * Louis should take him to the emergency room, the hospital, a doctor, a therapist. Louis should get him help immediately. He should go to the police station and file a report against his abuser. He should do _something_ , tell _someone_ , _anything_ , _anyone_. (But then he remembers how Harry had begged him not to take him to the hospital directly after the car accident. He remembers how, the following day, Harry had given no explanation but instead stated firmly that he refused to go. Louis had let the subject drop because it had clearly upset Harry. Even if it wasn’t the right thing to do. Louis doesn’t think he can live with the consequences, whether he takes Harry to get help or not.)
  * Harry has told Louis that he is naturally submissive, and he always has been. He’s practiced BDSM with his abuser, of course playing the role of a sub—his abuser the dom. Louis researched the BDSM scene last night in great detail, learning a million new terms that jumble around in his mind. He is absolutely, one-hundred percent certain that—even though the circumstances are strange—Harry is subdropping right now. Subdropping is when the submissive partner is stuck in ‘subspace’ (a compliant, submissive state of mind) after ‘play’ and isn’t receiving aftercare. He has slipped into a depressive state, that, when mixed with his trauma, is paralyzing.



 

 

The last thing Louis knows is that the immediate solution to Harry’s subdropping is to provide him aftercare. But he isn’t sure what to do. Harry is lying there, dazed, completely unresponsive, and he has no idea how to care for him, no idea what is within the boundaries and what is crossing any lines. He wishes he could ask Harry, but of course, that’s the problem within itself, isn’t it?

 

Before he does anything, he pulls the duvet up to Harry’s chin and then grabs his phone, dialing his mum. She answers on the second ring, as he exits his bedroom but stands in the hallway, keeping his eyes on Harry who still hasn’t moved.

 

“Louis?”

 

“Hi mum,” he greets, no time to be sheepish or conversational. No time to beat around the bush or even politely ask how her Saturday has been. He’s vaguely aware that he’s calling during dinnertime, but there’s no time for hesitation. “Um, before you say anything, please don’t freak out. I’m um, in a bit of a situation. Actually, someone I really care about is hurt, kind of. Like, emotionally hurt.”

 

Johannah is quiet for a moment. When she speaks, she is calm and collected, reasonable, serious. Louis is a million times thankful he doesn’t have to deal with this alone. “Is anyone in immediate danger? Should you be calling the police?”

 

“No. I don’t think so. No one is physically hurt, it’s just…” He stares at Harry, at his supplication. At his brokenness. “I can’t deal with this on my own, mum.”

 

“Okay baby. I have the little ones with me right now; Dan and the older girls are on their trip, remember? If I come I have to bring the little ones, and it’ll take more than three hours for me to get to London.”

 

Louis thinks of his mum driving three hours from Doncaster to London with the kids in their car-seats in the back, buckled up tightly. He thinks of them entering the flat for the first time in months, seeing Louis so distressed and Harry so unresponsive. He thinks of hugging his mum for the first time since Christmas, thinks of having her by his side as they figure out how to help Harry. He thinks of how selfish it is for him to ask her to drop everything and drive three hours South just to give Louis some support. Thinks of how selfish he is for wanting his mum’s hug. Thinks of how much he needs her by his side.

 

“That’s okay,” he whispers, voice breaking. Some things are just too big for him to deal with on his own, even though he’s been trying his hardest all week. He wills himself not to cry, and tells her, “I’d really like you here with me, if you’re willing to come.”

 

“Are you sure it’s safe if the little ones come with me?”

 

“Yeah… He’s, um. He’s not doing anything. We can just tell them he’s ill, and they can stay in the living room.”

 

“Okay. We’re getting into the car right now. I have you on speakerphone.”

 

He can imagine Jay rounding up the kids as they speak, grabbing her things, and ushering everyone outside into the car. Speedily and efficiently, ready to act. The thought of his mum, so calm, so rational, calms his racing, frightened heart.

 

“Thank you, mum.”

 

“Always, honey.” There’s a flash of static, and for an instant he’s afraid the call will end. The line clears and he can hear his mum’s voice without disruption:

 

“Now, tell me what’s going on.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

He explains everything he can to his mum, laying everything out to the best of his ability, as clearly as he can. She does not freak out, nor does she cry. She does not know Harry the way Louis does—she has no emotional attachment aside from the simple knowledge that Harry is a young, innocent human being—and this allows her to react calmly and without strong emotions overcoming her perception and reasoning.

 

Louis tells her about the forums he’s read on the topic of subdropping, and she agrees that he should give aftercare a try. They discuss a game-plan, run through it twice, say _goodbye_ and _see you soon_ , and then hang up.

 

He reenters his bedroom, setting his phone on the nightstand. Harry is still lying there, still as a statue. He hasn’t moved except for letting his eyelids flutter closed—yet Louis is certain he is not asleep.

 

He remembers what he read last night, easily recalling that aftercare is different for every person and every situation. He picks up his phone again and runs through the checklist he screenshotted last night, mentally crossing out the tips that aren’t applicable:

 

  * Remove your partner from all BDSM paraphernalia. Remove ropes, blindfolds, etc.
  * Attend to any first aid concerns (open wounds, bruises, welts, etc.).
  * Provide access to food or drink.
  * Provide a warm blanket or clothing.
  * Minimize marks through the use of creams or ice.
  * Provide a quiet place to sit, lie down, curl up, or cuddle together.
  * Cater to the comfort of all five senses, such as light (sight) and smell.
  * Provide physical contact such as kissing, cuddling, and stroking of skin or hair.
  * Communicate with your partner about the scene, discussing the good and bad parts of the experience. Be open to listen to your partner’s feelings and concerns.
  * Assure your partner that they are not disgusting and should not be ashamed of their kink.
  * Offer any sense of comfort (a stuffed animal, for example).
  * Additional suggestions: draw a bath, play soothing music, and/or give your partner a massage.
  * REMINDER: THE POINT OF AFTERCARE IS TO MAKE THE SUB FEEL ACCEPTED, WANTED, SAFE, SECURE, AND COMFORTABLE. FAILURE TO DO SO MEANS FAILURE TO FILL YOUR ROLE AS A DOM.



 

 

“Alright Harry,” Louis whispers softly, standing beside the bed. “I’m gonna take care of you, baby. I’ll fix this. Don’t worry. I promise I’ll fix this.”

 

He leaves the room to search around the flat for things he might need. He fills a glass with water from the kitchen sink, puts the teapot on the stove, finds a scented candle along with a stuffed animal in the linen closet, and grabs the extremely soft blanket from the living room. When he returns to his bedroom he flips the overhead light off and turns on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room in soft yellow light as opposed to the brighter overhead light. He sets the candle on the nightstand next to the glass of water and lights the wick with the cigarette lighter in his back pocket. Almost immediately the scent of roses drifts through the air.

 

“I’m not doing anything until you tell me this is okay. You have to respond,” he informs clearly, clutching the soft stuffed llama in his hands.

 

Harry’s eyes flutter open, and in the faint light from the lamp his eyes look dark, black at first glance and only slightly green if Louis searches for it. He stares up at Louis for a long time, seconds that stretch out into minutes. When Harry nods minutely, eyes wide and glassy still, Louis exhales a sigh of relief.

 

Louis pulls back the duvet and slips inside, lying beside Harry and propping his elbow up on the pillow. He sets the stuffed llama between them, feeling slightly stupid. With the way he’s situated, he has the ability to fully encapsulate Harry in his arms, in a way that is protective and hopefully comforting. He caresses the soft skin of Harry’s cheeks in his hands, wiping away the saltwater tear with the pads of his thumbs.

 

“I’m so sorry, honey,” he whispers, his voice soft, affectionate, and honest. He continues stroking Harry’s skin, staring into Harry’s eyes. “I’m so sorry I let this happen to you baby. I’m so sorry I let him see you. I’m so sorry I let you down.”

 

And he means it. He really does.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry doesn’t fall asleep.

 

Louis switches between stroking Harry’s skin and petting his hair. All the while he whispers reassurances like prayers, chants affirmations like mantras.

 

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. You’re okay. You’re safe here. I won’t ever let him get near you again. I’ll protect you. You’re safe here.”

 

Harry keeps his eyes trained on Louis’ face and Louis desperately wonders what he is thinking right now. So he asks.

 

“Penny for your thoughts?”

 

Again, Harry remains silent for so long Louis is certain he will not answer.

 

Yet, he murmurs, in his deep, quiet, broken voice:

 

“I deserved it.”

 

Louis immediate stiffens and his hand stills in Harry’s hair, entangled by the short, loose curls. Harry’s words don’t sink in immediately.

 

When they do…

 

“No Harry, you’re wrong,” he whispers, reaching down to press his lips to Harry’s forehead. “You didn’t deserve it. Not one bit.” His kisses him again, this time on the cheek, feeling his lips wet with tears. “You are the kindest, sweetest, most compassionate person on this earth, Harry Styles. _You are an angel._ Too good for this world. You _do not_ deserve any of the shit you’ve been through, Harry. _You do not_.”

 

He drags his fingers along Harry’s neck, his collarbones. Softly, so softly. A feather-light touch. He kisses his nose and then pulls away, tells himself he should stop kissing Harry because it might seem like he’s taking advantage of him. _You deserve all the kisses in the world_ , Louis thinks, but different words spill out. They are honest too.

 

“Harry Styles, light of my life, angel on earth,” he begins, laughing lightly, breathing in the scent of roses and Harry. “You deserve all the kindness, all the compassion, and all the love in the entire fucking universe. _You deserve happiness. You do._ And I will keep telling you this until you believe me.”

 

Harry reacts, if only subtly, by snuggling closer to the fabric of Louis’ t-shirt.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Jay reaches her destination with the twins hours later, when it’s completely dark outside. She arrives at the flat with two young children in tow and uses the copied key her son gave her to enter through the front door.

 

Upon entering, she immediately smells the scent of rose. As she looks around, she observes the only slightly messy flat, first seeing the living room with a makeshift bed set up on the couch. She glances at the kitchen and only finds two bowls and two spoons dirty in the sink—everything else must be already washed. She is oddly proud, and comforted. Despite Louis’ years of living on his own she still worries about him.

 

The twins are exhausted and ready for bed, having fallen asleep on the long drive to London, so she sets them up on the couch with the blankets and pillows she finds around the room, turning the TV on to play cartoons until they fall asleep. She kisses each of them goodnight and tells them not to worry.

 

Then, she heads down the hall to Louis’ bedroom.

 

The door is open. She walks in to see her son in his own bed, curled around a stranger.

 

The blankets are pulled around them tightly. Louis is slightly higher on the pillow, resting languidly on his elbow, his other arm around the unfamiliar boy she has learned to be _Harry_.

 

By now Jay knows the full story; she is aware of the abuse, the rape, the torture, the fear, and the trauma. She is aware of Louis’ first interactions with the boy, his first impressions as well. She is aware of the events of the past week, of Louis offering Harry his bedroom to reside in, Louis sacrificing comfort to give someone in need a place to stay, opting for the couch. She is aware of today’s breakfast, the walk in Hyde Park, the rom-com during which he fell asleep. The museum, the grocery store. The Monster.

 

(Although, only Harry calls him The Monster, privately and in his head.

 

Louis thinks of him as ‘Harry’s boyfriend’ and Jay has simply labeled him ‘Harry’s abuser’.)

 

She observes Harry’s brown hair, getting long around his ears, enough to need a haircut, and notices a tiny, unruly curl that falls forward on his forehead. His skin is pale and almost translucent—something that is typical for winter but strange in summer, even though London hardly gets any sun. He is too pale, too sallow. From the stress, presumably.

 

(Jay notices small acne scars on his chin and jaw, faint traces of his boyhood. He is more man than boy now, and at this realization Johannah takes a moment to observe her own son too. She sees the same in him—a man, now. Grown up almost completely.)

 

“Is he asleep?” She asks, for Harry’s eyes are closed, long lashes resting on his milky skin.

 

Louis looks up, not startled at the intrusion, and frowns down at the boy in his arms. “No, he’s not. Hi mum.”

 

“Hi honey.” She walks forward, towards the edge of the bed, and leans over to kiss his forehead. She turns to Harry, who is now staring at Louis, eyes wide and open. Despite her entrance, his gaze does not stray from her son’s face.

 

“You must be Harry,” she greets. Not expecting a response. She doesn’t receive one anyways. “I’m Jay, Louis’ mum. It’s nice to meet you, honey.”

 

His state is just as Louis described: unresponsive and complacent. When she reaches out to touch his face, he doesn’t flinch, just blinks up at her, shifting his eyes uneasily away from Louis. There’s an untouched mug of tea on the nightstand, probably well cold by now. Jay wonders if it was for Louis or for Harry.

 

She wishes Harry would let them take him to the hospital—it would be so much easier that way, to just let the professionals sort things out. But deep down, she realizes she understands why he doesn’t want to go, and thus she respects his decision.

 

All he really needs is love and care, now. Louis is doing a fine job of making sure of that.

 

(She can see the love in his eyes—a deep affection that never ebbs or falters. He cares about Harry, very much so. Jay has always been in tune with his feelings, but she thinks now that even a stranger could see how much he cares for Harry.)

 

They spend the next hours like this: Louis and Jay take turns speaking to Harry, telling him gentle, lovely things that are affirmative and true. They go back and forth, reassuring him, until he falls asleep in Louis’ arms. Harry goes the entire night without speaking in Jay’s presence, to the point where she is desperate to hear his voice, to hear him say he is okay. Yet, she knows she must be patient.

 

Late at night, she kisses them both on the forehead, wishes them goodnight. Harry is out like a light, exhausted, but Louis is lucid enough to say it back to her, so he does, his voice quiet and wispy as it always is when he’s tired and worn-out. The situation is nothing short of draining.

 

She retires to the family room, curling up on the couch beside her two youngest children. She falls asleep as soon as she sits down.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

In the dark space of four AM nothingness, Harry wakes up.

 

There’s a body on top of his, warm and breathing. Every exhale pushes down on him, creating a pressure that builds up comfortably. He thinks it should be panicking, with a heavy weight on top of him that keeps Harry’s breathing shallow in stuttered inhales and exhales, but instead he finds it comforting. He is pressed between the mattress and another human being. He cannot move. He wants to sink down, through the mattress and the floor, all the way to the dirt below. He wants to crawl even further into the earth, wants to curl up, hide away, and never come out.

 

His mind is still a daze—he cannot remember what happened but he knows it was dreadful. He wills himself to fall back asleep. His heart thuds erratically, unpleasantly, in his chest.

 

He drifts into nothingness.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

The world is driven by fear, by the panic between seconds, by the horror of a future unknown.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

It’s light out the next time Harry opens his eyes. Sun is streaming in from the windows, the curtains drawn back, and he recognizes this as a very rare occurrence for cloudy London. Louis is still in bed with him. Like Harry he is awake now.

 

“You feeling okay?” Is the first thing Louis asks. He’s not lying on top of Harry anymore, instead lying next to him, their heads inches from each other’s on the same pillow. While Louis is spread out, limbs stretched to the foot of the bed, Harry is curled up with his knees bent and resting in the minimal empty space between him and Louis.

 

Memories of the previous night flood Harry’s mind. He tries to push them away, but he can’t. Shame and humiliation overwhelm him, in addition to the embarrassment, pain, and always fear. He recalls Louis kissing his cheeks and forehead, holding him as he cried. He recalls a woman—Louis’ mum—telling him everything will be alright.

 

“I’m sorry,” he moans, bringing his hands up to cover his face, the hot blush that spreads across his skin in humiliation. “I’m so stupid, nothing even happen, I shouldn’t have freaked out-“

 

“Harry, please stop,” Louis whines, effectively cutting off his words. From the cracks between his fingers Harry watches as Louis sits up in bed, stretching his arms above his hand and yawning. “It’s too early in the morning for you to say such untrue things.”

 

Harry closes his eyes again, still feeling deeply ashamed. Louis gently pries his hands from his face and tweaks his nose. Harry cannot help the giggle that escapes him. It’s the first time he’s laughed in a very long time and it feels nice, especially with the way Louis is beaming down at him.

 

They’re interrupted by the sound of the door swinging open, the sound of people scurrying in and scampering across the carpeted floor.

 

“ACHOO!” Tiny voices shriek, running forward and jumping on the bed, landing on top of both Louis and Harry.

 

“Oofff,” Harry groans when a tiny body falls backwards on top of him.

 

The kids are too caught up in seeing their brother for the first time in months that they don’t notice Harry at first. Louis is laughing, hugging and kissing them, ruffling their hair and tickling them. It’s sweet, so so so sweet, that Harry cannot help but watch in wonder and awe. Harry himself has never had a younger sibling but he knows a lot about Louis’ family from the hours they’ve spent talking this past week. Harry has heard about Ernest and Doris, Daisy and Phoebe, Fizzy, and Lottie. He knows how close he is with his sisters, how much he misses them, how much he wishes he could visit them more often.

 

The thought of Louis’ family makes Harry ache for his own. He misses his mum, he misses his sister, he misses Robin. He misses Holmes Chapel and all the comfort the small town brings.

 

Louis sees the ache in Harry’s expression through the chaos. He pulls away, both the kids in his lap, and introduces them to Harry. Links their hands together, fingers laced tightly as one.

 

They do not regard him with suspicion. They do not stare at him wearily. They do not treat him like any less of a person because of the abuse he’s been through—in fact, they don’t even know about the trauma. Through their eyes, the world is a bright, sunny place where the greatest pain anyone will ever feel is a scraped knee or a bumped head. Through their eyes, Harry is a normal human being, a friend of their big brother, a new addition to the family.

 

There’s a knock at the door. Jay peaks her head in the room, a smile curling on her lips when she sees her youngest climbing all over Harry and playing with his hair, Louis sitting back and laughing at them. Harry is giggling wildly, and she is glad to see him up and acting normal after the broken-down panic of last night.

 

“Breakfast is ready,” she informs them, saving the moment in her mind before leaving the room.

 

They eat at the tiny kitchen table with folding chairs found in the back of the closet at the end of the hallway. Louis’ mum had gone out to the store earlier and brought back ingredients for a full English breakfast. Harry tries not to think about Jay at the same Tesco’s Louis and Harry had been to last night, walking the same aisles The Monster had walked. Harry vaguely wonders about the trolly they had left stranded and abandoned in the freezer section, and ponders when they’ll have the chance to go shopping again.

 

Louis must be thinking along the same lines because he mentions to his mum that they didn’t get to purchase their items last night. Jay offers to go grocery shopping for them if they agree to watch Ernie and Doris, and Louis agrees happily.

 

Harry welcomes the distraction of the kids, glad to be focusing on something else all day that isn’t the past, isn’t the abuse, isn’t the fear. For the entire day Harry and Louis play house, taking care of the kids, feeding them, keeping them entertained. They come to love Harry, a lot, because he’s so silly and playful when he’s with them. Louis watches in awe as Harry interacts with the little ones, finding it so unbelievably sweet and endearing.

 

They play hide and seek and then tag, followed by horsey (a game where Harry and Louis crawl around on their knees while the kids sit on their backs and treat them like horses) and once they get tired from playing they settle down on the couch, the four of them together, to watch a movie. Louis has a stack of Disney movies in a stand below the TV, so they debate over which one they want to watch before electing _The Emperor’s New Groove_. Jay comes home halfway through, her arms full of grocery bags. The kids are lying completely on top of Louis, clinging to their big brother and immobilizing him, so Harry gets up to help her, taking some of the bags from her arms and setting them in the kitchen.

 

As they put the items away in the cupboards and the fridge, Harry and Jay are alone together in the kitchen.

 

“I’m sorry you had to drive all the way out here,” he says, awkward and hesitant, as he puts the cereal boxes away in the cupboard below the toaster. He doesn’t want to talk about last night, doesn’t even want to think about it, but Jay drove three hours with no notice just to help Harry. She really deserves a heartfelt thank you.

 

Jay reaches out, grabs his wrist in her hand. Stares straight into his eyes, not looking away, not faltering. It’s intimidating in the simplest way. “Harry.”

 

And so she tells him what she told him the night before, that he didn’t deserve any of the awful things that happened to him, that he’ll get better one day soon. She tells him that what The Monster did was wrong, so so wrong, and that if anyone ever treats him like that again Harry needs to leave immediately. She tells him he deserves love, he deserves hope, and he deserves happiness. He deserves softness and kindness after the years of abuse and torture.

 

“I want you to think about going to a doctor, or a therapist, Harry. Do some research, weigh the pros and cons, really think it through. It could really help you, honey.” She sighs and lets go of his hand. Turns back to where she is putting vegetables in the bottom drawer of the fridge. “Until then you have us, okay honey? You can always find a family in us—in Louis, me, Dan, the kids. Alright?”

 

Harry looks down, feeling his eyes fill with tears. He isn’t sure why, but he thinks that maybe it’s the feeling of someone caring for him that’s making him cry. She rubs his back soothingly and then leaves the kitchen to join her children.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Jay and the kids leave during late afternoon, to get home in time for the little ones’ bedtime. They pack peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner (Doris insisting Louis’ make hers, because apparently Louis’ PB & J sandwiches are the best). When they leave, the flat is glaringly empty, devoid of the chatter and laughter that had filled the rooms earlier. Harry can tell that Louis is sad his mum is leaving, and he doesn’t know what to do to make him feel better. Harry feels helpless, useless, standing there unable to fill the emptiness Louis’ family created when they left for home.

 

“I have to work tomorrow,” Louis says quietly, looking down at his feet and like he wants to retreat to privacy, but Harry is staying in his bedroom and so he has nowhere to go. “Will you be okay here? Or do you wanna come to the bookstore with me?”

 

Harry blushes, feeling childlike and ashamed. “I’m okay here,” he tells Louis, even though he isn’t sure. “I should probably start looking for flats, anyways.”

 

Louis frowns, probably thinking the same thing as Harry: _he can’t stay here with Louis forever_. He meets Harry’s eyes and then deflates. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

“Well, um…” Harry lingers in the living room awkwardly, certain he should hug Louis or at least do _something_ , but he can’t think of a solution to the problem that wouldn’t involve crossing any boundaries, and so he brushes his hair off of his face nervously and stares at the floor, unable and unwilling to meet Louis’ sad eyes. They’ve slept together in the same bed before, but that was an _accident_. He breathes quietly, “I’m gonna go to sleep I guess.”

_Awkward_ , Harry thinks all the way back to Louis’ bedroom. _Awkward awkward awkward_. He really has overstayed his welcome and now he needs to find somewhere else to stay.

 

As he buries himself deep beneath the duvet, he thinks that it would be so simple if he could just go home and stay with his family. His misses his mum, his dad, and his sister… misses them dearly. At this point he would give anything to go back in time, to fix his mistakes. He misses them like he misses the sun during winter, it’s an ache deep in his bones that won’t ever go away, and he wants nothing more than to crawl back home and curl up in his mother’s arms. He desperately wants her to coddle him, take care of him like she used to when he was a kid.

 

They hate him now, though, he’s certain. Harry was the one to cut ties, the one to burn bridges, and it’s wholly his fault that they do not want to even speak to him now. It seemed easy and natural and right to ignore his family when he was with The Monster because he was under the illusion that he did not need anyone _except_ The Monster. But now he’s left hanging high and dry, alone except for a stranger who was too kind to turn him away.

 

Louis. Louis isn’t a stranger anymore, not in the slightest. Harry knows it’s unfair to call him that but yet it still feels like the truth—they’ve been acquaintances for months and friends for only days. They still dance around each other awkwardly and uncertainly, trying not to push any boundaries. They know each other in extremely intimate ways but have somehow skipped over getting to know each other in a simple familiar ways first. There’s a dissonance: Harry has met Louis’ family and also knows what it’s like to wake up next to him, arms wound around his waist and Louis’ face pressed to his neck, warm and frighteningly intimate, but he can’t recall the name of a single one of Louis’ friends, and he doesn’t even know a single detail about his writing career.

 

And Louis’ knowledge of Harry is much of the same. He knows about the heavy things, the personal things—his experiences with The Monster, his fears. Louis knows more about Harry’s upsetting sex-life than he knows about Harry’s everyday likes and dislikes, and this in itself is disconcerting and strange.

 

After a week of living together they’ve attempted to fill in the insurmountable gaps by talking about light, everyday topics in the hopes of learning the facts about each other they’ve seemed to overlook. And yet, Harry cannot learn Louis in seven days just as Louis cannot learn Harry so quickly. So they dance around topics and unknowns, attempting to ignore the fact that Louis can recall the horrifying story of how Harry lost his virginity but does not yet know Harry’s middle name.

 

Harry’s about to start sobbing wildly or maybe just fall asleep from the deep exhaustion that holds him captive, but he hears the quiet sound of the door opening. He pulls the duvet away from his face, very aware that his eyes are red and puffy, and his nose is stuffy—ignoring it all. Pretending, pretending, always pretending. He bravely meets Louis’ eyes.

 

“How are you feeling, honey?” Louis asks, and even though it should be strange to hear that endearment fall so easily from his lips, it really isn’t strange. It feels common, comfortable, like something Harry knows and doesn’t fear. Like something warm and cozy, like heavy arms wrapped around him soothingly.

 

“Okay…” He mumbles, and it’s simultaneously the stupidest lie on earth and also the most translucent. He tries to breathe in through his nose, but it turns into an obvious sniffle.

 

Louis laughs a little because they both know Harry’s response was the biggest load of bullshit in the world. He reaches out to pet Harry’s hair like he so often does nowadays. “ _Sure_ ,” he breathes, sarcastic. Then his face turns soft like flower petals or silk sheets. The feeling of summer sun on your skin. “How’s your back?”

 

This one isn’t a lie: “itchy.”

 

“Good, that means it’s healing.” He sits down on the edge of the mattress, pulling the duvet back up to Harry’s chin, helping him snuggle into the blankets. “Look Harry, we need to talk about what happened last night.”

 

Harry closes his eyes to keep the stupid tears trapped inside. They spill out anyways, desperately dripping down his face and onto the pillow. Wet and salty and shiny. Stupid tears that represent his weakness. He really wishes he could just stop crying. It makes it hard to breathe.

 

“Harry, I…” he pauses and sighs, lifting his hand to his mouth and pulling his thumbnail between his teeth nervously. “I can’t believe that happened. I’m so sorry. I took a chance, I made you leave the flat… I thought it would be good to get you outside. But god, what are the fucking chances of him being at Tesco’s the same time we were there? It’s gotta be like one in a million… just the shittiest timing in the history of ever.”

 

Louis laughs bitterly, wringing out his hands. His eyes are drifting around the room—away from Harry, never looking at him. Either to give him the privacy to cry in peace, or because he cannot bring himself to look at someone so broken and pathetic.

 

“And… and everything was so good until then. I thought you looked really happy, happier than you’ve been since you got hit by that car at least. And I um, I know that situation fucked you up and I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t blame you if you never went outside ever again. So. I’m so sorry that- that _Monster_ hurt you. And that he was there. Right fucking there in that fucking Tesco’s. And I’m sorry for all the other shit too, all the shit I could’ve fixed and all the shit I wish I could change even though I know I can’t. I just don’t know what to do. I want to help you but I don’t know how.”

 

There’s a heavy beat of silence, filled with the beats of their hearts, like the beat of a butterfly’s wings.

 

Harry just… cannot believe that Louis is apologizing for things he didn’t even do, and. And.

 

And he thinks that maybe, out of all the people in the world… all the humans, selfish and ugly deep to their very cores, straight to the shitty atoms that compose their beings, every single fucking one of them, because god knows none of them are innocent… out of all the humans on earth, he thinks that maybe, maybe, maybe… maybe he might love Louis the most.

 

He doesn’t know how to say this, how to convey this, so he just grabs Louis’ hands and squishes them between his own. Harry’s hands are larger and engulf Louis’ which look small and delicate in comparison. He memorizes the feeling of Louis’ tiny fingers encased by his own, warm and soft and sweet. He memorizes the feeling and he saves it for later.

 

And then Harry tries out a smile to show that he’s okay. Okay now and forever and especially when he’s by Louis’ side. But Louis stares at him like he’s an alien for smiling, so Harry squeezes his hands and says, _thank you_. He has to look away from Louis’ confused blue eyes because they’re so distracting. He could get lost in them forever.

 

“You’re helping me more than you know.”

 

Louis doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t say anything either. Harry drops his hands. Louis stares at him, expecting what? Probably waiting for Harry to combust, explode. Obliterate into a million shards.

 

Well, he already shattered. He already shattered, a million times over, like rocks being smashed to pebbles and then ground to sand. Like beating a dead horse. He already shattered, every time The Monster hit him for no reason at all, _every single fucking time_ The Monster touched him when he didn’t want to be touched… forced his way in like a conqueror taking what he thought was his, stole things from Harry like a greedy, insatiable thief… stole his family, his innocence… his life…

 

Harry looks away. “I don’t even know why you’re being so kind to me…” he whispers. And the way he says it, it’s clear he feels like he doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve any kindness at all. He cannot keep the weakness from his wavering voice.

 

Louis is stunned into silence for a long time. He doesn’t say anything, just stares at Harry with his nail between his teeth, nervous. “Because…” and there are no words to follow.

 

(One day Louis will figure out a way to convey the mess of torture and adoration in his heart, without using the words _I love you_ even though that’s what he really wants to say.

 

Harry is broken and obliterated, shattered. He doesn’t believe in love, not anymore, and he told Louis as much yesterday at breakfast. Louis wants to say _I love you_ but he knows Harry won’t accept it. Even worse, he knows Harry will never say it back.

 

Harry thinks love is a made-up concept—a conspiracy, a LIE. He has told Louis this, too, a few nights ago when they spilled their deepest secrets to each other. IT ISN’T REAL, he had whispered into the deep darkness, and in that moment the deep darkness of the room had seeped into Louis’ heart, making him cold. _It isn’t real. I thought it was real but it isn’t, it’s a lie, it doesn’t exist_.

 

Louis had tried to tell him different, tried to tell him that just because The Monster didn’t love him doesn’t mean the rest of the world feels the same way. And Louis had proof, too, proof buried deep in his chest, in his heart.

_I love you_ , Louis thinks now, feeling the words on the tip of his tongue. Willing to spill out. But he knows that if he says these treacherous thoughts out loud, Harry will panic. Maybe he’ll even run away again, like he ran away from The Monster.

_I love you_ , Louis wants to tell him anyway. Wants to whisper it into his hair, kiss it onto his cheekbones, breathe it down his throat.

 

Instead he chews on his nail and says nothing.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis wakes up Harry early the next morning. “I want you to come with me,” are the first words out of his mouth, as he’s slipping out of his t-shirt and replacing it with a pretty burgundy jumper. The jumper fits well aside from the sleeves, which are so long he has to roll them twice, and even then they cover his hands. He tugs them over his knuckles in an action of comfort.

 

“Mmmfgh..?” Harry mumbles, sleep-ridden and now just barely awake. The curtains are pulled open and the silver light of a cloudy morning sky in London nearly blinds him.

 

Louis must’ve slept in the living room again, Harry thinks. After the two nights they spent sleeping in the same bed, he still retreats to the couch, uncertain and unwilling to render Harry uncomfortable. What Louis doesn’t know is that Harry craves his presence.

 

“Please. I’ve thought about it and I’d feel much better if you came with me so I will know you’re okay. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

 

Harry squints in the bright light and sits up. He was planning on staying in bed all day and crying, while trying to think of somewhere else to stay. He suspects that isn’t the best thing to do, for the simple fact that he might actually curl up into a ball and die, so it’s probably a good idea to go with Louis. He sighs, pulls himself out of bed. Forgets he isn’t wearing a single article of clothing.

 

(He sleeps naked because he’s used to it, and because he likes the feeling of Louis’ soft sheets on his bare skin.)

 

Louis covers his eyes quickly, a warm blush rising to his cheeks. “You have to stop doing that Harry.”

 

“Stop doing what?” He asks, playing coy, crossing the room to dig through the pile of clothes that sits atop his open bag. Louis offered him a drawer in his wardrobe but he has yet to organize his clothes enough to place them there. He pulls on some pants and then realizes he doesn’t have anything else clean to wear.

 

Louis is still standing there with his eyes covered, looking flustered. “You know exactly what,” he complains, turning away to drop his hands and slip a pair of black socks over his bare feet. “You can’t just walk around arse-naked all the time.”

 

Harry laughs as he searches around for a pair of Louis’ jeans, knowing they’ll fit him well aside from being too short, so he’ll just roll up the ends to make the length appear intentional. “Why not?” He retorts playfully, still sleepy and sad but somehow in a good enough mood to joke. He gets the jeans up his hips, zipping them up and then twirling around in the floor-length mirror to see if he looks okay. It’ll have to do.

 

“Because it’s weird,” Louis grumbles, now searching around in the nightstand drawer for god knows what. He still refuses to look in Harry’s direction even though Harry is mostly dressed now.

 

“Weird?” Harry presses, finding a soft, gray long-sleeve shirt in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe.

 

“Distracting,” Louis amends.

 

“Ahah!” Harry cheers happily, shirt not yet on, “I knew you enjoyed my bum.”

 

Louis finally turns around and stares dead-straight at Harry’s face. It turns out it’s only to roll his eyes. “Don’t get too cocky,” he warns.

 

Harry smiles. In this moment he allows the feelings he’s been experiencing for days, weeks, months, to finally wash over him like the waves of the sea. He likes Louis—he does, he does, he really does. So much, he likes him _so much_ , so much it’s scary. Yet it feels calming to acknowledge his crush on Louis, even if just to himself in the secrecy of his mind.

 

(It’s calming in a way Harry’s never allowed the situation to be… Ever since their first meeting Harry had been interested, had this warm feeling in his chest that wouldn’t go away—not even when The Monster hit him that very same night, when he tied him to the bed with rope and fucked him hard, defiled him in a way that could never be undone…

 

Harry has always liked Louis, hasn’t he? The beautiful man in the bookstore, the boy with the books. But when Harry was with The Monster, this affection terrified him. He was afraid The Monster could somehow read his thoughts, could somehow know that Harry was interested in another person in a way that wasn’t only platonic. Hell, The Monster would punish him even if it was certain Louis was just a friend.)

 

Harry has known Louis for months, ever since the first time he gently woke Harry from his nap in the back corner of the bookstore, Harry’s spine pressed against the books and legs curled up to his chest. And then later, ever since the first time he suggested a book for Harry to read, then the first time he gifted Harry a book from his own collection. And the days and weeks afterwards, always taking time out of his day to talk to Harry, to discuss novels and poems and the book-to-movie conversions and to ask him trivial questions about his day. Harry has known Louis for months, from the times Louis has brought Harry tea from the coffee-shop attached to the bookstore, to the times he has noticed Harry wasn’t okay. Even early on he could always tell when Harry was upset, and he would move down the aisle to stack books near him, talking about inconsequential topics of conversation just to distract him from the storms raging in his mind.

 

Harry likes Louis, because Louis is kind. Louis is kind and caring and empathetic and always so, so lovely. Harry likes Louis because Louis is gentle with him and because Louis held him on the street on that awful night when he ran away and everything was dark and scary and so lonely and so, so terrifying.

 

Harry likes Louis because Louis likes to read and write and spend time with his family, and he likes to party and play football and screech along to the radio when he drives in his car. Harry likes Louis because he’s trying to quit smoking and he’s learning to cook and he’s doing the laundry and it’s all for Harry, all of it for Harry. Harry likes Louis because he’s an angel, he’s amazing, he’s beautiful, he’s powerful, he’s awe-inspiring, he’s charismatic, _he’s perfect he’s perfect he’s perfect_.

 

Harry likes Louis in a way he has never liked anyone before, not even The Monster. Not even The Monster, the man Harry swore he was in love with for years and years.

 

Harry likes Louis even though he’s afraid to like anyone, period. The last time he liked someone it didn’t end up well. At all. So. He’s definitely taking a risk. Especially so soon after running from The Monster. But Harry has never really been one to hide his feelings, never been one to hide from them either; he wears his heart on his sleeve and maybe that’s why he’s always getting hurt.

 

He thinks he should tell Louis, but then he thinks it’s too soon and too weird, and what would they even do, anyways? Harry may like Louis, but Harry is still traumatized and broken, shattered into a million different pieces that glisten like shiny glass in the morning light. He’s a mess, a right mess, and he doesn’t expect Louis to clean up after him.

 

(Except… what has Louis been doing the past week, if not clean up the shards of Harry?)

 

So he stares at Louis and in a glimpse of a moment he thinks all of these treacherous thoughts like a whirlwind of colors in his mind. Louis looks back at him, completely unaware of the embarrassing ideas Harry is considering.

 

“You’re right,” Harry agrees, smiling cheekily, feeling the weight of his stupid crush swell up from the bottom of his heart. “You definitely have the better bum.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis is assigned to the register all day, meaning he cannot talk to Harry under the guise of organizing books, so Harry is left for hours to his own devices. He drags a Webster’s thesaurus to one of the tiny coffee tables in the corner of the store where a barista makes drinks behind a cluttered countertop, and falls asleep with his head on the hard cover of the book—his own makeshift pillow. He wakes up an hour later with a crick in his neck and his face stuck to the ridged words on the front cover of the thesaurus.

  
From his spot at the undersized table against the wall of the shop, he can clearly see the checkout. He lifts his eyes to the cash registers and finds that Louis is already staring at him. When they make eye contact Louis looks startled and then shifts his gaze to the countertop. Harry laughs to himself, feeling giddy.

 

After this he gets up and hunts around the store for books he has yet to read, and by the time he’s made it all the way to the back of the store he has a stack of at least ten books in his hands, so he goes back towards the barista’s countertop to sit at the table he always sits. When he gets there, he finds someone else in his usual seat.

 

From here, Harry immediately sees his pretty, dark, inky hair, smooth and soft and falling into his eyes. His eyes! Light brown in the warm glow from the thrift-store lamp beside the table, the most beautiful eye color he’s ever seen. Amber and tawny like autumn and caramel coffee. And then, like… Harry notices his overall facial structure, all the while thinking, he really got lucky with those genes, he really got lucky because all of his features work incredibly well together. He’s stunning in a way that is nothing short of insanely intimidating. Stunning in the way that is godlike.

 

God, Harry needs to stop fawning over this stranger who is sitting at his table. Harry stands there awkwardly, tower of books tipping out of his hands as he struggles to balance them, and he stares dumbfounded at the table that is usually his. It is covered in a deep, dark blue cloth with shiny gold embellishments of crescent moons and stars all over it. The edges of the cloth, which hang over the tiny table, are decorated with hand-sewn tassels that flutter with the breeze created when strangers walk past.

 

Harry stands there with no place to sit, tower of books in hand, staring unbridled at the man sitting with a stack of large cards, shuffling them back and forth from hand to hand.

_Is he a psychic?_ is Harry’s first comprehensible thought.

 

No matter; it’s none of his business. Harry resigns himself to sitting on the floor against the wall. As he goes to turn he bumps into the table, the book on top of the stack in his hands tumbling down and skidding across the floor to the strange man’s feet. _Of course_.

 

“Sorry,” Harry mutters, embarrassed, setting his stupid stack of books on the table, atop the blue cloth, praying that this is an okay thing to do and that he isn’t currently breaking any psychic rules he isn’t aware of. He reaches down for the book and is surprised to see that the man has leant down and grabbed it before him, the large paperback in his hand.

 

He holds the book out, offering it to Harry, an eyebrow raised inquisitively, and even though it’s probably just his normal face, Harry feels like this man is judging him.

 

“Sorry,” he repeats, grabbing the book and pulling it to his chest comfortingly. “Um, I’m just gonna-“

 

“You can sit down.” The man gestures forward to the seat in front of him. His face is a perpetual scowl.

 

“Oh- okay…” Harry knows better than to argue. He sits down on the ornate metal chair, still clutching _The Poisonwood Bible_ to his chest like a child with a stuffed animal. “Umm…”

 

“I’m Zayn,” he introduces lazily, accent thick and heavy.

 

“I’m Harry.” He feels awkward sitting there, the book held to his chest. “Umm, this is a lovely cloth. What- what is it?”

 

“It blocks negative energies from entering my workspace. I’m a seer.”

 

“A seer? So like, a psychic..?”

 

“Psychic, fortuneteller, clairvoyant, _card reader_ …” He gestures to the stack of cards, which he has set down on the dark blue cloth in front of him. “I can read yours, if you want.”

 

“Erm, I don’t really have money with me.”

 

“Free of charge. I’m bored.”

 

Harry doesn’t know how to say no. “Um, okay…”

 

The man, Zayn, begins to shuffle the cards from hand to hand. He doesn’t shuffle them like a normal deck of cards, instead oddly pushing them with his thumb from one palm to the other, then back again.

 

“Any specific question you want me to answer? About your future, your love life, your chances of winning the lottery..?” He says the last two with conviction, and a ghost of a smirk on his face.

 

“Uh, nothing in particular, no.”

 

Zayn nods, looking down at his cards. The back has an intricate pattern in only black ink, each card roughly the same but clearly not a carbon-copy. The cards look handmade. Harry asks him about them, and Zayn tells him he made drew them all himself.

 

He keeps shuffling, lucid brown eyes gazing intently at the cards. He shuffles for an eternity, at least that’s what it feels like. And then, suddenly, he splits the deck on the cloth into three distinct, uneven piles.

 

“Ready?”

 

“I guess…”

 

Carefully and with practiced ease, Zayn takes a card from each pile before placing it on the cloth, face down.

 

“Past, present, future,” he clarifies, pointing at each card as he says the words. “Got it?”

 

Harry nods, feeling nervous.

 

Zayn flips the first card. Harry stares down at it, taking in the hand-drawn image. It’s a butterfly cocoon, a _pupa_. Hanging from a thin branch, suspended over eight sharp swords, all of them pointing upwards.

 

“Eight of Swords,” Zayn calls out, voice mystic and quiet, but rigid. “Past.”

 

Harry can’t tear his eyes from the card. It looks ominous, frightening, drawn in freakishly detailed black ink. A butterfly pupa suspended above dangerous swords, tinted mud brown and blood red. It’s going to fall soon, and when it falls, it will be impaled. The soon-to-be butterfly will die before it has a chance to spread its wings.

 

“What does it mean?” Harry whispers.

 

“Eight of Swords,” Zayn repeats, stroking his fingers over the card dreamily. “The card of powerlessness and entrapment. You were surrounded by obstacles on all sides, with no way out. This is the past.” Zayn suddenly looks up, eyes boring into Harry’s, his gaze relentless and demanding answers. “What kept you there? Why didn’t you leave?”

 

Harry feels his heart drop to the floor.

_Why didn’t you leave? Why didn’t you leave?_

_Why didn’t you leave when The Monster first hit you?_

_Why didn’t you leave when The Monster first raped you?_

 

“I…“ Harry chokes, on the verge of tears but keeping it together for the simple fact that he is in public and if he starts crying right now he knows he’ll never stop. “I- I couldn’t,” he moans, clasping a hand over his mouth, three seconds away from sobbing out loud.

 

Zayn keeps staring at him, doesn’t flip the card back over even though he sees it’s upsetting Harry. He just watches curiously and then looks back down to reveal the next card. He flips it skillfully, masterfully.

 

“The Empress. Present.”

 

Harry glances down to see a pink and lavender tree sprawling up and outwards on an ink-black background, the night sky with a glowing yellow moon near the corner.

 

“The card of Creation, Nature, The Mother.” Zayn presses his thumb down hard on the root of the tree. “It is the card of gentleness and compassion. It means to love more.” He looks up at Harry again, eyes calm and curious. “There is a part of you that wants to love more, but the Eight of Swords is holding you back. Your past is keeping you captive. The Empress wants you to love, and yet… you refuse.”

 

Harry’s breath hitches. He digs his fingers into the corners of his eyes, pressing hard just like Zayn is on the tarot card. He has no words, no will. Only the pain in his chest, the stinging in his eyes.

 

“Your future,” Zayn sings, making a show of flipping over the last card. “Temperance. The card of healing and renewal.”

 

Harry opens his eyes. Sees the strange-looking bird, a blue heron, on a background of imperfect stripes, flames tamely licking its claws.

 

“Balance, harmony. _Healing_.” Zayn peers up at Harry, gauging his reaction.

 

Harry struggles to keep his face blank. Beneath his mask, a torrent of emotion rises like the waves of the sea during a storm. He can’t get the image of the pupa out of his mind, dangling dangerously over the swords. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a wad of money and tossing it on the table. “That’s all I have, sorry. I have to go.”

 

Zayn pockets the money and flips the cards over, shuffling them back into the deck. He flips the large cards from hand to hand. _Shuffle shuffle shuffle_. Harry has made to leave, but he’s mesmerized by the graceful way Zayn handles his handmade tarot deck.

 

He’s just about to turn away. Just about to leave. He sees Louis from across the bookstore, leaving the cash register for his hour break. Walking towards Harry, a concerned look on his pretty face. They make eye contact. Harry’s breath hitches again pathetically. Zayn keeps shuffling.

 

A card jumps out.

 

They both stare at the table, a singular card laying facedown. Zayn did not put it there. Zayn did not make it fall out of the deck on purpose. For a second he looks as startled as Harry.

 

“Wait,” he says, his voice quiet and authoritative. His cool, collected demeanor is back. He holds his hand out in a halting motion to stop Harry from leaving, using his other to flip the card over to see its face.

 

Two Canadian geese are pictured, flying in the same direction. Bright rays of all the colors of the rainbow decorate the sky behind them. At the bottom of the card, written in beautiful, scrawling script:

_The Lovers_.

 

Harry’s eyes widen. Zayn lifts the card and waves it through the air, shoving it in Harry’s face.

 

“Do you see this?” he asks, scowling. “You don’t believe in love,” he bites, bringing the card back to his hands and inspecting it closely. “You don’t believe in love and yet you get The Lovers. Do you understand? Out of seventy-eight cards in the tarot deck, _you get The Lovers_.”

 

“Union, desire, and love,” he informs pedantically, handing the card to Harry. “That’s what it represents.” He shoves it into his hands, forcibly clasping Harry’s fingers around it. “Keep it. I have to make another now.”

 

“What?” Harry asks, startled.

 

“Tarot cards can become attached to people and that one wants you. Keep it. I’ll draw another.”

 

“What- why did it… What does it mean?”

 

“Love,” Zayn mutters, beginning to pack up his things. “It’s your card—your _future_. Love. It doesn’t always mean a romantic relationship, but…” He looks up and sees Louis approaching the table.

 

Harry wants to tell him to leave before this Zayn guy says something else that’s crazy. Louis is five steps away. Three. One. Zero.

 

“Hey Harry,” he greets cautiously, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder protectively, and it’s then that Harry realizes Louis only came over to make sure Harry was okay.

 

“Hey Lou,” he mumbles in response, holding the card behind his back.

 

Zayn stares at them, eyes narrowed. He shuffles his cards in his hands, sets the stack down on the blue cloth, and plucks the one from the top. He flips it over and places it on the fabric.

 

“The Sun,” he mutters, looking pointedly at Louis before shaking his head once and settling back into the chair, no longer looking like he’s about to run out of the bookstore.

 

“The Sun?” Harry presses, fingers clutching tightly to The Lovers card in his hands.

 

“Warmth, brightness, optimism, _hope_ …” He holds it out, showing it to Harry. The card is almost as bright as The Lovers, brilliant yellow and orange exploding from the center in rays and beams of light.

 

Harry stares at the card. Then at Zayn. Then the card again.

 

Anywhere but Louis.

 

(Louis, The Sun.)

 

“Ohh,” Harry breathes softly, feeling dizzy. Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders and frowns at the fortuneteller. Zayn lounges back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee, undisturbed.

 

“I have an hour for lunch, and there’s a café down the street?” Louis offers, his eyes slipping to Zayn again, untrusting.

 

“Sounds good,” Harry forces himself to say, mind still whirling from the card reading, and the timing of it all. He smiles at Louis to ease the frown on his face, shuffling the both of them away from the table where Zayn is sitting, watching them with a guarded expression.

 

“What was that?” Louis asks once they’re outside, walking down the street to the café.

 

“Nothing,” Harry responds, too quickly. He slips the card into his back pocket and hopes Louis won’t notice the edge that sticks out. Although Harry has caught Louis staring at his bum enough times that there’s no doubt he’ll see it. Oh well. “Um, he’s a fortuneteller and he was bored, so he read my cards. I don’t really believe in that stuff though.”

 

What a major lie.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

“My friends are coming over tonight,” Louis says matter-of-factly, completely out of the blue.

 

It’s Saturday night and Harry has been staying with Louis for over two weeks now. _Two entire weeks since he ran away from The Monster_. Louis and Harry have been coexisting nicely for fourteen days now, falling into a rhythm. Their days go like this:

 

They wake up early in the mornings, Harry in Louis’ bed and Louis on the couch. They eat cereal together at the tiny table in the kitchen, or scrambled eggs and toast if Harry is feeling inspired, although most of the time he has to drag himself out of bed and force himself to eat. If it’s a weekday they go to the bookstore together, and Louis works behind the cash register while Harry sits in the attached coffee shop and reads every book under the sun. Sometimes he gets bored or tired or both and falls asleep against the stacks of books in the back room. Louis wakes him at noon for lunch, and they eat sandwiches and soups at the café down the street. They talk about their lives but dance around the topic of The Monster, so Harry tells Louis about his school and his classes while Louis talks about his writing and his plans for the future. After lunch Louis goes back to work and Harry goes back to reading or napping and they don’t leave until five or six o’clock depending on the day.

 

They walk home together, the short way down to Louis’ flat, maybe stopping at Tesco’s even though Harry is afraid to go inside anymore. Louis always ends up coaxing him in anyways, clasping his hands tightly over Harry’s and leading him inside the supermarket even though he feels paralyzed with fear. They remain side by side for the entirety of the shopping, Louis never once letting go of Harry’s hand, even when older people glare at them with disgust or little kids look on with curiosity.

 

Harry has never really thought much about being gay because as soon as he had his big gay revelation, The Monster found him and he was in a relationship immediately. Besides, The Monster was never one for public displays of affection, as he much preferred public displays of dominance and submission, like keeping his arm hooked over Harry’s shoulders, Harry retracting into The Monster’s side. So when Louis gets close enough to make old people glare at them, or even just holds Harry’s hand, Harry gets this weird feeling that is both giddy and thrilling. For some reason he feels as though these stupid displays of his sexuality are something he’s missed out on for years, and now he wants to make up for it by holding Louis’ hand always, and stroking his cheek playfully, and hugging him just because he can.

 

This is how their days go. When they leave Tesco’s they have to carry heavy paper bags of groceries all the way back to Louis’ flat, leaving them breathless and winded by the time they get inside. And then they get to work, Louis putting the groceries away while Harry works on preparing dinner with the fresh ingredients they just bought, making whichever meal he and Louis agreed on that day. They never had any conflict over dinner, which Harry was very much unaccustomed to after years of cooking for The Monster. In fact, last week when Harry told Louis he wanted to become vegetarian Louis just smiled supportively and they haven’t eaten meat since.

 

They always eat at the tiny kitchen table for dinner, even though the couch seems like a better option because it’s less cramped. It just feels better this way, to have a routine that neither one of them breaks. After dinner they do the dishes together and then take Clifford outside for a walk down the city streets and through the park. It is on these long walks when Harry comes to know Louis the best, as they take the opportunity to learn more and more about each other. By the time the second Saturday comes around, Harry feels as though he’s known Louis for years, even though he’s really only known him for months and has been living with him for no longer than fourteen days.

 

Either way, Harry is still inexplicably shocked when Louis informs him his friends are coming over.

 

“What?” Harry asks, the word tumbling out of his mouth as he feels his heart seizes up in fear. He’s currently curled up on the couch (Louis’ makeshift bed) and wrapped up like a burrito in a fuzzy maroon blanket, watching all-day reruns of America’s Next Top Model on the large TV above the fireplace. Clifford is lying on top of him, the big oaf of a dog stretched out like a green bean over Harry’s cocooned body; this is Harry’s excuse for why he hasn’t moved from this spot all day and he’s sticking to it.

 

Louis reaches down to scratch Cliff behind the ears. The dog opens his eyes and sees Harry’s face right in front of him, craning his neck to lick him. Harry strains to get out of the direct line of pink dog tongue accosting his face.

 

“I’m the absolute worst,” Louis says, sitting on top of Harry’s feet, which are stretched out to the edge of the couch, “and I forget to tell you that I made plans ages ago to have a summer party at my flat. Tonight. So.”

 

Harry’s eyes widen. “ _Party_?”

 

“A term used loosely, but yeah. As much of a party as I can have in this tiny flat.”

 

So on this strange Saturday afternoon, Harry helps Louis clean the flat and move furniture out of the way, and when the clock hits eight, he retreats back to Louis’ bedroom, shutting the door tightly behind him. This is the deal they made: Louis will have his party and Harry will stay inside his bedroom. Louis will not mention Harry to any of his friends because it would be too difficult to explain, and they would probably demand answers that neither Louis nor Harry would have. Harry doesn’t want to be a burden and he doesn’t want to hold Louis back from socializing with his friends, so even though having so many people in the flat makes him uncomfortable, he doesn’t say anything. He’s just grateful that Louis is letting him hide away, because even though it’s stupid he keeps getting this weird panicky feeling that somehow he will be discovered…

 

Louis never mentioned how many people he was having over but from the sound of it all Harry can tell there’s a lot. Large crowds of strangers have always made Harry uncomfortable, even before The Monster, so he keeps himself busy by transporting the few items he owns to the drawers Louis offered to him, and the space Louis cleared out in the closet too. Harry doesn’t have much, but he does have the few things he grabbed right before he got the hell out of there, so he cherishes the belongings he managed to salvage.

 

When he’s moving some of his clothes into the closet he notices something shoved up against the corner, hidden in the darkness. He touches it carefully and drags it out into the light, surprised to see a guitar case.

 

In all of their non-stop talking for the past two weeks, Louis has not once mentioned an ability to play the guitar. Harry thinks that’s pretty peculiar and he decides it’s either a talent Louis has wanted to keep secret, or an object he forgot about entirely because he never uses it.

 

Out of curiosity he unsheathes it from its soft case, sitting down on his heels and setting the shiny acoustic guitar on his lap. He strums the strings quietly and finds them all to be out of tune.

Harry himself knows how to play the guitar. In fact, it has always been his one true act of defiance against The Monster. The Monster, who didn’t want Harry to play the guitar or sing or _any of that shit_ , even if it was just for fun.

 

(Sometimes late at night, Harry thinks about how different his life would be if he had just followed his dreams of singing, instead of falling into The Monster’s trap.)

 

He’s self-taught, so he can play the guitar okay but he isn’t amazing or anything. It is singing that he loves more, singing whenever and singing always. His mum used to turn the radio off in the car when he would sing along, so she could hear his voice clearly without the radio in the background. When he would trail off or finish the song she would clap her hands on the steering wheel and cheer him on, complimenting his voice every single time, telling him he was a lovely singer and that if he really wanted to he could make a career out of it. Harry would always laugh and shake his head, unable to imagine a future where he was a musician.

 

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t imagine it because as soon as he met The Monster all his plans flew out the window. He had to bend to The Monster’s will immediately, unknowingly. And then when he did know he was changing himself to fit The Monster’s desires, he thought he was changing himself willingly. And then somewhere along the line something snapped and he realized he was bending to The Monster’s will _unwillingly_. By then it was too late.

 

Harry carries the guitar to the bed and sits down with it resting on his lap, the strap around his shoulder and back. He tunes it as he taught himself to do, those quiet months in the secret hours while The Monster was away at work and Harry was in between classes. He always stored the guitar in his old professor’s room because it was too risky to keep it in the flat. He would practice in the deserted lecture hall, or an empty classroom if there was another class going on, and he would watch videos to learn the basics, and then eventually listen to the radio and try to recreate what he heard.

 

Now he strums his fingers on the strings and thinks of his own guitar, still in the professor’s room at school. He has forgotten about it until now, the lovely instrument lost in the shuffle of Harry’s abuse and torture. He hopes he’ll remember to go back for it before graduation.

 

He’s a little rusty from a month and a half without practice, so he takes it slow, playing cords and nothing else to refresh his memory. Then he carefully places the guitar back into its case, zipping up the soft cover, moves it to the shadowy corner of the closet, and shuts the door.

 

He sits on the bed, staring at the grand shelf of books in front of him, listening to the cheerful sound of music and laughter seeping through the walls.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis stumbles into the bedroom three hours later, not drunk yet but only pleasantly tipsy, for a reprieve from the party which still continues on without him. He finds Harry sitting cross-legged on the bed, two books in his lap: the Webster thesaurus, which he always has with him nowadays, and Louis’ hand-me-down copy of _Kama Sutra_.

 

“What are you doing?” Louis asks with a laugh, crossing the room ungracefully. “ _Kama Sutra_ , really? And why do you always have a thesaurus out?”

 

“Because I like the thesaurus,” Harry answers, shutting it so that Louis can’t peak at whichever words he has looked up this time. “It’s much better than the dictionary—all the families of words are together, instead of being separated by alphabetization. They get lonely in the dictionary when they’re separated.”

 

Louis looks at him weirdly, still smiling. “Are you sure I’m the one who has been drinking and not you?”

 

“Hey, you asked.”

 

“And why are you reading _Kama Sutra_?” Louis asks again, aware Harry deliberately ignored the question the first time.

 

“I think a better question is ‘why do you own this book?’” Harry retorts, holding the book up and pointing to the illustration of a woman doing a backbend and giving a blowjob at the same time.

 

Louis rolls his eyes, consciously looking away from the explicit picture Harry is pointing to. “It was a gift,” he answers, flopping down on the bed because he’s exhausted from playing host and entertaining his friends. He wonders how Harry can talk so flippantly about sex—the experience that has literally traumatized him to the point of no return. Then Louis wonders if Harry would ever even consider having sex down the line somewhere maybe in a few years, and that’s where he stops his train of thought because honestly? It doesn’t feel right to think like that. He feels like he’s taking advantage of Harry.

 

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, peering down at him, book forgotten.

 

Louis mumbles an affirmative _yeah_ , letting his forearm fall over his face and groaning.

 

“Then what’s wrong? Why are you in here?”

 

“Because I’m exhausted.” He peeks out from behind his arm to peer up at Harry. Emboldened by the alcohol he adds, “and I miss you.”

 

Harry seems to think he’s joking. “It’s only been like three hours, silly.”

 

The truth is, Louis is being honest.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Sunday morning is full of yummy breakfast cooked by Harry and upbeat music playing on the tiny portable speaker Louis owns. Harry teaches Louis how to make crepes, and they practice with all the extra batter, making mountains of breakfast food, some good and some bad. The both of them are in happy, light-hearted moods, so the morning is pleasant as they pass the time ranking the crepes they make and singing along to the music, shuffling around the kitchen in their pajamas.

 

“I think you would like my friends,” Louis comments offhandedly as they settle down on the couch, watching stupid Sunday morning talk shows. “At least Liam and Niall. And I know they would like you too.”

 

Harry’s stomach knots as he considers the idea of meeting Louis’ friends. “I don’t know,” he mumbles uneasily, biting his lip nervously and then running his tongue over it when he tastes blood.

 

“Stop that,” Louis chides, poking at Harry’s lip. “Harry, seriously—they’re great guys, I’ve been friends with them forever. They’ll love you.”

 

Louis tickles Harry’s side, causing him to giggle uncomfortably and squirm away.

 

“Look, Harry, Liam is working today and we can stop by and see him. He works at the vegan bagel place, remember? We can go in a few hours, say hi, get lunch, and leave, no problem.”

 

Harry closes his eyes and sinks further into the couch. He wants nothing more than to please Louis, to make him happy, but… he’s just so afraid.

 

“Please, Harry?” Louis asks, lip in a pout, puppy-dog eyes and everything. Unfair.

 

Harry sighs, giving in. “Aren’t all bagels vegan?”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

As it turns out, the idea of a vegan bagel shop is a place where all bagel toppings (such as butter and cream cheese) are vegan, but the bagels themselves are ultimately unchanged. Harry likes the idea of animal-cruelty-free foods, and the fact that Louis’ friend Liam works here only adds a tally in his favor. (Harry is keeping score.)

 

They enter the shop, which is surprisingly busy, only then Harry thinks, why wouldn’t it be? It’s a nice sunny Sunday in June in the middle of London, and people want their vegan bagels.

 

Upon entering, Louis immediately calls out a greeting to the man behind the counter. Harry looks up to see that he is big—strong and muscular—and would be intimidating if it weren’t for his face, which is very puppy-like.

 

On their walk to the bagel place, Louis had told Harry details about his friends in order to ease Harry’s nerves. He had sad that Liam is like a golden retriever in that he’s loyal and loveable and pretty much adorable. He also said that if Liam went to Hogwarts he would _definitely_ be Gryfindor. Another fact Louis mentioned is that working at the vegan bagel shop is only a weekend job—Liam is actually a firefighter five days of the week. Harry finds this very impressive, and strangely comforting.

 

Niall, Louis had described on the walk over, is the Irish guy who plays acoustic guitar and sings at bars for a living. He and Louis were roommates at uni all four years (the first year by chance and the rest by choice). Niall now is a musician who has an accounting job on the side. He’s fairly successful, and Louis is surprised Harry hasn’t heard of him yet, but then Harry reminds him that he’s never really been out to bars so he wouldn’t have ever seen Niall. Louis frowns at that, and whispers to himself, _we’re gonna have to fix that_.

 

Anyway, Louis had texted Niall to invite him to eat lunch with Harry and Louis, and Niall agreed, so. There you go.

 

They walked up to the counter together with Louis’ arm slung casually around Harry’s shoulders, even though he had to stand on his tippy-toes to reach.

 

Liam and Louis exchange greetings, and then Liam’s eyes shift to Harry but they are not cold nor dismissive. He simply looks curious.

 

“Who’s this?” He asks, gesturing towards Harry. For some reason, Harry blushes and looks down. He doesn’t know why he feels embarrassed.

 

“This is Harry, who’s been staying at my flat lately. Harry, Liam.” He gestures between them.

 

“Hi,” Harry squeaks, wishing he wasn’t so nervous and shaky. Louis lets his arm slip down Harry’s back to wrap it around his waist, sliding his hand beneath Harry’s loose t-shirt. He runs his fingertips back and forth on the skin of Harry’s hip. As tactile as Harry is, he finds it soothing.

 

“Staying with you?” Liam inquires, glancing at Louis’ arm around Harry’s middle. Again his tone is not judgmental, just interested.

 

“Yeah, Harold here had a bit of a bad breakup and he lived with the bloke, so when it ended he had nowhere to stay.”

 

For some reason it has never occurred to Harry to describe his situation in this way, yet when Louis says it so casually it seems so normal. Harry finds himself to be relieved. He relaxes is a little, smiling slightly.

 

“Nice to meet you, Harry,” Liam says, sticking his hand out for Harry to shake.

 

“Likewise,” Harry agrees politely, shaking his hand.

 

After that, it’s as if they’ve been friends for years.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry and Louis are eating their bagels at the table closest to the counter so they can talk to Liam in between customers. Niall arrives ten minutes into their lunch in a flurry of energy.

 

He’s extremely amiable and immediately loveable. Niall and Harry get on so well, joking around and laughing at each other’s stupid jokes before they’re even introduced, that Liam and Louis share a look over the countertop.

 

They stay for hours as Liam works, the four of them talking and laughing about anything and everything. At one point Louis is strangely subdued, and when Harry peers over at him he sees Louis leaning back in his seat, gazing at Harry. A self-satisfied smirk is covering his features.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Some days are good, and some are bad.

 

Louis likes to think that most are good, but.

 

But.

 

He sees sadness in Harry’s eyes—a sadness that won’t go away. No matter how ardently Louis tries to make him smile or laugh or even just distract him.

 

There’s sadness, and there’s heaviness. Heaviness, yes, this heavy weight like metal shackles enclosed around Harry’s ankles and wrists, dragging him down, holding him back—imprisoning him. The cold, imposing metal turns his skin a pallid, sallow color, and he looks unbelievably tired, sad, and drained...

 

There is no freedom. There is no liberty from this suffering. Harry is rampaged by nightmares and memories and trauma. He is a beautiful soul split, broken, cracked.

 

He is his past; he is his fears.

 

Time passes. It’s two days before Harry’s graduation and he is still living with Louis. He’s been searching for flats for a few days now, staring at the screen of Louis’ laptop and asking God how he’ll ever afford a place to stay on his own. He considers swallowing his pride and returning home, but deep in his heart he knows it isn’t a matter of excessive pride. Harry cannot go home because this was his decision, _he_ decided to burn the bridge that leads to back home to Holmes Chapel. It’s his fault and his fault alone… most definitely and most certainly, wholeheartedly _his fault_. There’s no going back, not now and not  
ever.

 

Yes, there are good days and there are bad days.

 

This is a bad day.

 

Late at night, Louis hears something strange so he goes to check and see if Harry is okay. Harry had said he was going to take a shower, and the shower is definitely running now, but Louis hears something else. Something else, yeah, funny, that ‘something else’. Louis should know better by now that this ‘something else’ is nothing good. _Never_ anything good.

 

(It sounds like retching.)

 

Louis knocks on the bathroom door softly so as not to startle him. “Harry?” He calls out, feeling increasingly worried. It’s always like this nowadays. Louis finds himself constantly worried about Harry.

 

When there’s no response he knocks harder. Then pauses. Knocks harder still. Hand in fist, fist meeting door, door screaming when fist and wood collide. A chain reaction.

 

“Harry? Is everything alright?” Louis practically yells, heart pounding now. There’s a weird sinking feeling in his gut, and he knows deep down that something is wrong. He bangs his fist on the door and it quakes in its frame. Trembling like Harry trembles when he’s afraid. “Harry?”

 

Deep beneath the pericardium of his heart, Louis knows something is WRONG. His stomach is sinking, knotted, turning anxiously with worry. His head is throbbing and pounding, a great annoyance to go with the otherwise shitty day. His throat feels dry. His mind feels weary.

 

(Everything feels wrong.)

 

Even without the strange circumstances he’s sure he could sense the ominous feeling within the flat. It’s like some sort of telepathy, some sort of supernatural premonition. Like when a mother knows her child is hurt, even if they’re on other sides of the world.

 

(This presentiment is not good. It is WRONG. It is EVIL.)

_Could it be the same for soulmates?_ Louis thinks, heart punching his ribcage, rabbitting out of his chest. He doesn’t know where this thought is coming from but right now in his mind it doesn’t matter. All Louis thinks is this:

 

He loves Harry. He loves Harry _and if he loses him now…_

 

There is no _then_ to his _if_. There is no other side of the ellipses. There is no complete sentence.

 

IF I LOSE HARRY, Louis screams in his mind, and there is no follow-up thought. There is no I WILL _______. Because if he loses Harry, then that is the end.

 

That is the end of all things.

 

With shaking hands he tries the doorknob and finds it to be unlocked. _Thank god_ , he thinks, although it’s a bit too early to be thanking god or whoever it is that is up there, making decisions, twisting fate. Writing the universe.

 

It’s a bit too early to be thanking god because the door swings open, and. And.

 

And Louis is not prepared for the sight.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

God is wicked. God is cruel.

 

God is a callous man turning his back on the world.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

And there is horror. And there is FEAR.

 

THERE IS ACHING and LONGING and THERE IS A NIGHTMARE.

 

THERE IS ONE HALF OF STAR,  
A SUNBURST,  
A COMET,  
A SKY.

 

ONE HALF OF A SOUL.

 

A PIECE OF LOUIS CURLED UP ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR,  
A PIECE OF LOUIS BROKEN,

 

A PIECE OF LOUIS SHATTERED.

 

THIS IS GRITTY and BLOODY and HORRIFYING. THIS IS VILE, DEFILED.

 

THIS IS LOVE. THIS IS RAW LOVE. THIS IS FUCKING DISGUSTING AND FUCKING TERRIFYING AND THIS IS FUCKING LOVE.

 

Louis immediately pulls his hand to his mouth, covering it in shock and fear. As he takes in the image, it feels as if his heart stops. Stops stops stops like a ticking-time bomb reaching 00:00.00 before it DETONATES.

 

Why, why, why? Holy Mary and Heavenly Father, any fucking God above, the stars and the planets, the universe—WHY? He wants to scream, wants to tear his vocal cords out of his throat with his bare claws. Wants to screamscreamSCREAM HIS FUCKING HEAD OFF.

 

(Wants to RUN and HIDE.)

 

Harry is collapsed, curled up on the floor in front of the toilet. Hugging it tightly, one arm wrapped around its base clutching, grasping. Leaning over it with his fingers shoved down his throat. And he’s gagging, retching. Puking up nothing but bile and spit tinged with blood. Choking, coughing, and still he pushes on, fingers down his throat, relentless and insistent. Like he’s dead-set determined to get the evil out of him.

 

THIS IS NOT THE WORST PART.

 

The worst part is this:

 

His right hand is down his throat but his left is by his side, clutching something tightly. Something?

 

A weapon. A knife. Its sharp blade glints brightly in the dull bathroom lighting. Covered in blood.

 

BLOOD. THE COLOR OF A BLEEDING SUNSET CRIMSON AND BRIGHT, LEAKING LIFE. BLOOD LIKE RAW PAIN AND DEATH. BLOOD LIKE A CRIME SCENE, BLOOD LIKE A BLOODBATH, BLOOD LIKE FEAR AND ONLY FEAR, NOTHING BUT FEARFEARFEAR.

 

(Oh God, the _blood_.)

 

It’s everywhere, covering Harry’s bare legs, the floor, his hands. Red everywhere, the deep red of human life, spilling out of his body, onto the white tile floor. White and red, yes, this is purity and this is impurity. This is VIRGINITY and this is DEFILEMENT, this is VIRTUE and this is VICE. This is SKIN and THE BLOOD UNDERNEATH THE SKIN, this is CUTTING YOURSELF OPEN WITH A KITCHEN KNIFE.

 

“Oh Harry…” Louis gasps, not sure how he even fucking gets the words out. He rushes forward and collapses to his knees at Harry’s side. Collapses because he’s terrified and weak and exhausted and HORRIFIED TERRIFIED FEARFUL FEARFUL ALWAYS FEARFUL ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS FEARFUL.

 

Harry pulls his head out of the toilet, for the first time noticing Louis. His eyes are rimmed red, and he looks crazy, like he’s high, but Louis knows it’s just from crying. He wipes the spit off his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood on his face. He looks animalistic, sage and determined and stolen away. He looks inhuman. He looks SAVAGE like this, BEASTLY. WILD and COVERED IN BLOOD.

 

Louis doesn’t know what to do.

 

He stands there and stares as someone he loves stares back. He takes in the sight: Harry crumpled on the floor in front of the toilet, spit dribbling down his chin, coating his skin, making him shiny. Harry with blood pooling on his thighs, blood spilling onto the floor.

 

Harry with a knife in his hands.

 

“Harry…” he whispers, and in his mind he thinks he might faint, or run. Run far away. Far away. “Harry… honey…”

 

The knife clatters to the floor. Harry tilts his head forward and spits saliva and blood into the toilet. He sits back on his heels and stares at Louis.

 

Louis is crying. Sobbing, actually. Silently. Just hot wet tears streaming down his face uncontrollably. He picks up the knife and stares at it for a moment, feeling overwhelmingly confused. _Harry… cut… himself..?_ His thoughts are slow like molasses. Louis pulls his sleeve down to cover his palm, and carefully wipes the blood from the glinting blade of the knife. Harry gazes as Louis struggles to grasp reality.

 

He taps the edge once with the pad of his finger, and for some reason he is surprised that it cuts him. Louis stares at his index finger as a small bead of red blood expands from the small puncture in his skin. He observes it a moment longer, confused, and wipes it on his trousers. Then he carefully sets the knife on the countertop.

 

When he looks back at Harry, he is startled into reality.

 

In front of him sits Harry. A boy, a man, a beast. A creature who had cut himself with a kitchen knife. A being with blood spilling from open wounds. Harry.

 

Louis crawls forward. He leans forward. He wordlessly wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders and squeezes him tightly. Harry’s spit gets in Louis’ hair and on his neck. Harry’s blood stains Louis’ pajamas.

 

Harry’s pain permeates Louis’ skin.

 

“Harry…” he breathes, not letting go because if he lets go, Harry will disappear. Harry will fade away.

 

Louis doesn’t want Harry to fade away so he clings on tighter. “Harry,” he says quietly, but his voice is steely and urgent and strong, “you can’t do this. You can’t. You have to stop hurting yourself.”

 

In Louis’ arms, Harry falls pliant. He always does this, always turns meek and docile, always falls into submission. For once Louis is glad. He isn’t sure what he would do if Harry had decided to fight back.

 

Louis props him up against the wall. Harry looks at him with glassy eyes. Red-rimmed and delirious from blood loss and exhaustion. Louis grabs the hand towel from the rack and presses it gently to Harry’s thighs to soak up the blood. When he pulls the white towel away, it is stained the color of rust.

 

Louis begins to work like he did that first night when he found Harry lying in the street, wounded and unconscious. He cleans the cuts first, with water and then the antiseptic wash he keeps in the cupboard below the sink. Then he inspects the cuts more closely.

 

They are neither deep nor lengthy, and to that Louis breaths out an audible sigh of relief. In all honesty this would be the perfect opportunity to take Harry to the hospital to get him professional help. And yet, as soon as the consideration enters Louis’ mind, he shoves it away, thinking back to the night when Harry got hit by the car. He hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital—he was so _desperate_ not to go. Harry had made Louis promise not to take him.

 

Louis observes the wounds and knows he can handle them. So he applies antiseptic and pain cream and bandages to the tiger stripes down Harry’s hips and thighs. There are many cuts, all of them new and fresh, from the kitchen knife just now. But when Louis looks closer, he sees scars. Old scars, discolored lines that don’t match the rest of Harry’s pretty milky skin. Most of the scars are flat and barely noticeable.

 

Most, except for one set of scars: on his upper left thigh, right where his leg joins his hip, a word is carved in messy, sharp lines. The scar-tissue is raised and white, so that the word is clear. A word that confuses Louis. One singular word.

 

WHORE.

 

Louis runs his finger over it, feeling the raised lines against the pad of his index. It is smooth and fully healed and so much a part of Harry that it must have been done a while ago.

 

Louis will have to inquire later, when Harry is more lucid. For now, Louis simply lifts the naked creature up to his feet by hooking his hands at the junction between arms and shoulders. Harry stands easily, but teeters over like he always does when he’s dissociating. With a great big heave and much effort, Louis lifts Harry fully into his arms and carries him to bed.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis cannot fall asleep. So he sits on the bed with Harry curled up partly in his lap but mostly on the bed, sleeping soundly, and cards his fingers through Harry’s hair. Harry is completely dead to the world, so even though the action goes unnoticed by him, it is soothing to Louis.

 

Louis has done this before, many times. In fact, he has hugged Harry in his arms and petted his hair and stroked his cheeks until he has fallen asleep. Sleep seems to be the only remedy to Harry’s discomfort and fear, and even then… even then he still wakes up shaking in the middle of the night from bad dreams. Even then he is not free from his past. Not safe, never safe.

 

As Louis gazes down at Harry, he thinks about The Monster. He thinks about someone cruel enough to hurt something so pure. Someone evil enough to break something so fragile.

 

How could someone do this to him?

 

When Louis thinks about The Monster he feels nothing but resentment. Rage. He finds himself desperate for justice against acts so unthinkable, so malevolent, so wicked, so cruel. As Louis gently strokes Harry’s hair he feels wrath spring forward from his bones.

 

He wants to destroy everyone who hurt this angel, starting with The Monster.

 

(Starting with The Monster but not stopping there. Louis will tear apart this world to seek revenge. As his gazes at Harry in his peaceful slumber, brows un-furrowed and lips relaxedly parted, Louis resigns himself to his vengeance. This is his duty; this is his charge.)

 

Louis doesn’t fall asleep until the sun peaks out above the horizon.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry wakes up to something soft on his collarbones. Like the wings of a bird, soft against his skin, light and lovely. Louis. (His mouth.)

 

Harry keeps his eyes closed, not exactly pretending to be asleep but also not alerting Louis of his very much awake-ness.

 

Louis lips are soft on Harry’s skin, and warm, and gentle. He kisses all the way from one bow to the other, shoulder to shoulder, all the way down along his collarbones. With every feather-light touch, Harry feels tingles all along his spine. When Louis returns to Harry’s center, he presses his lips down lightly to the base of Harry’s throat and presses a long, lingering kiss. Harry cannot help but let out a low, audible sigh.

 

Louis pulls away. Harry’s eyes flicker open at the loss of contact.

 

“Morning, love,” Louis greets with a quiet smile, like he hadn’t just been intimately kissing all along Harry’s collarbones and neck. They’ve never kissed before, so this is strange.

 

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, unable to fight the smile that spreads to his face.

 

Louis mimics his smile. It blossoms like a flower in spring. “Waking you up.”

 

Harry shakes his head, laughing a little. He wants to ask, why _are you always so gentle with me?_ but he has no courage. Instead he bites his lip and sits up, propping himself on his elbows and causing Louis to tumble to the side.

 

“Feeling okay?” Louis asks, attempting to dissemble nonchalance and failing. With his brows furrowed slightly, he looks worried.

 

Harry nods slowly, remembering last night. In the bathroom, purging, cutting, crying… He bites his lip, feeling awful. He does not want Louis to worry about him.

 

Yet last night was bad—really bad. One of those nights when he can’t get the thought of The Monster out of his mind no matter what he does. The thought of him… the feeling of his hands on Harry… cold, hungry, imperialistic hands that _take_ , hands that _conquer_ … The thought of him… fucking into Harry… like he’s trying to twist a knife deep into his core…

 

The thought of him, and the actual knife. The thought of The Monster with that actual fucking kitchen knife. The thought of The Monster holding Harry down, dragging the blade across Harry’s skin. Laughing as Harry squirms. Ordering him to scream. (Harry refusing.)

_Refusing to scream refusing to scream refusing to scream_. He refuses to scream but doesn’t really refuse the other things. Harry lives by letting life happen to him, by letting others have their way until they’re bored and through with him. But he has to draw the line somewhere. And he refuses to scream for The Monster.

 

( _Imagine not flinching_ , Harry thinks, _when a plate drops. When a door closes. At the sound of footsteps. At the brush of a hand._ )

 

Louis sighs audibly, and the noise startles Harry back into reality. Louis looks insanely relieved. He rolls over to press a soft but enthusiastic kiss against the bow of Harry’s cheek. Then he throws himself forward and wraps his arms around Harry to cling to him, pressing his face into the crook between Harry’s neck and shoulder. Louis’ humid breath on Harry’s skin tickles, making him laugh.

 

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Louis breathes happily, rolling over so his body is completely on top of Harry’s. The warm pressure feels nice. Secure. It makes Harry feel safe.

 

(And then he thinks, _please don’t leave me_.)

 

God, when did they become so close? Harry’s recollection of the last few weeks is like a fever dream. He remembers it out of order and segmented into categories titled _when everything is okay_ and _when everything isn’t_. The former category is full of blissful memories light and bright like summer sun. The latter are memories dark and heavy like slick black oil. Daydreams compared to nightmares.

 

“Harry…” Louis begins, speaking directly into the skin of Harry’s neck. “I don’t want to ruin your good mood, but we really need to talk about last night…”

 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, wishing he could’ve been quieter last night. Wishing Louis wouldn’t have noticed what he was doing. Wishing he would’ve locked the bathroom door. “Okay…”

 

“Honey,” Louis says quietly, pushing himself up so he’s sitting directly on Harry’s hips. He doesn’t seem to notice as he gazes down at Harry. “I really think you should consider seeing someone.”

 

Someone, as in, a therapist. Harry’s immediate reaction is to decline and deny. To say, _no, that’s okay, I’m fine. I don’t need to go to counseling. I’m fine._

 

The truth is, Harry is not fine. He is not okay. He probably really needs to go to therapy, or to a hospital or something. Or inpatient. He really should probably go to a mental institution.

 

But he’s afraid. Afraid of what? He’s not exactly sure. Maybe he’s afraid they’ll tell him he has no reason to be so broken. Maybe he’s afraid they’ll tell him what The Monster did was fine, okay, perfectly normal, nothing wrong with it.

 

Maybe he’s afraid they’ll tell him he deserves it, he deserves every awful, miserable, wretched thing that’s ever happened to him, and it’s all his fault anyway.

 

(Maybe he’s even more afraid they’ll tell him any normal person would react the way he has. Maybe he’s even more afraid they’ll say he has a chance at becoming okay again. That they’ll diagnose him with a legitimate disorder and give him medicine to make him better.

 

All of his fears are irrational and none of them make sense. But that doesn’t make them go away.)

 

“I- I don’t know-“ He chokes out, turning his head so he can look away from Louis as tears spill out of his eyes and down the side of his face, onto the pillow. Crying, always crying. He wishes he could escape, wishes he could run and run and run. Away, away, forever away. Wishes he could go somewhere to cry in peace.

 

“Baby,” Louis whispers, and he’s just a fountain of endearments today, isn’t he. “Tell me what’s going on. Are you afraid to go? Do you not think it’ll help?”

 

“I just- I don’t know…” And inside his mind he’s thinking that he should go see someone because they could probably really help him. But. Everything kinda seems pointless when he wishes he was dead. Why try to make his life less miserable when he really doesn’t even want a life at all? (But, for obvious reasons, he can’t say these thoughts out loud. So he just closes his eyes and tries to stop crying.)

 

“Please, Harry, please think about it. I can find someone who’ll help. And I can go with you, too, if you want.”

 

Harry just cries harder.

 

“Please,” Louis keeps saying over and over and over. _Please please please_. In his sweet soft voice. “Please, will you go? Will you say yes?”

 

Louis is still sitting back on Harry’s hips. His hands are pressing gently into Harry’s tummy. And despite the fact that Harry is crying and thinking about how much he wants to not be alive anymore, his heart is fluttering in his chest.

 

So he nods. _Anything for Louis_. Right?

 

And Louis smiles. “Really?”

 

Harry covers his face with his hands as a nonverbal response. Louis leans down and hugs him tightly.

 

“You’re so brave,” he assures, his entire body encompassing Harry’s in warmth. He doesn’t feel very brave but Louis keeps saying it.

 

They talk for hours after that, Louis persuading Harry to promise not to cut ever again, and making him promise to tell Louis when he feels as bad as he did last night. Harry cries a lot, and Louis does too, but mostly Harry just feels warm. Warm and soft and comfortable with Louis’ body on top of his. Harry has never been a fan of making homes in other people, but… with Louis, he feels at home.

 

Louis asks about the scar on Harry’s thigh, the one that says ‘whore’ in thick white lines. Harry tells him the truth: The Monster carved the word into his skin one night with the dull point of a kitchen knife, when Harry had been tied to the bed, completely helpless.

 

(In the quietness of the room Harry admits that he thinks he likes being tied up. And then he admits how gross he feels saying that, because it’s so fucked up. He had never liked it before, but now after the abuse and the pain and the fear, he finds it alluring in a way. Comforting. Something he’s ashamed of.

 

After Harry confesses, Louis spends a lot of time trying to validate him, telling him it’s not that weird and that a lot of people like it, in fact. Harry knows that, but he also knows that his desire for abusive behavior is because he was actually _abused_ , and not just because it’s a strange kink he has. And that makes it so much worse.

 

When Harry declares his thoughts out loud, Louis just strokes Harry’s wrists with his thumbs, his face sad.)

 

“I have a question,” Louis asks later, when they’re walking to the bookstore together. With every step, Harry’s jeans rub against the bandages on his thigh and tingles of pain permeate his skin.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Why ‘whore’?”

 

“Ummm,” Harry isn’t really sure how to answer that. “He just liked to call me that, I guess.”

 

Louis looks confused. “Did you… do anything… that would prompt him to call you that?”

 

“I’ve never had sex with anyone else, like, ever, if that’s what you’re asking.”

 

Louis grimaces. “That- that wasn’t what I was asking. And for the record Harry, that doesn’t matter to me and it shouldn’t matter to anyone else.” When Louis says this, Harry’s heart feels weird in his chest, not like it’s swelling or fluttering or anything, but just like it’s doing something not normal.

 

“He liked to call me shit like that all the time. Whore, slut, slave,” Harry is surprised to find himself rolling his eyes. His voice is light, nonchalant, and conversational… but even then it is laced with defiance. “Pretending he owned me. I thought he did.”

 

Louis stops walking. Harry doesn’t notice for a few steps.

 

“What?”

 

He’s smiling really big.

 

“What?” Harry repeats, unable to help smiling too. Louis smile is always so contagious.

 

Louis shakes his head, laughing. “I’m just really proud of you.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Two days later, Harry graduates with his degree in teaching.

 

As he walks across the stage, the name _Harry Styles_ spoken into the microphone, Louis is the only one to applaud. As Harry accepts his diploma and shakes the president’s hand, Louis claps harder.

 

Harry’s family has failed to show up. Louis shouldn’t be surprised. He knows Harry isn’t close with his family but he doesn’t know the details, and he has always been afraid to ask. But he wants to ask now, as he keeps his eyes on Harry who walks back to his assigned position and the rest of the names are called.

 

As soon as the ceremony is over, Louis, among thousands of others, bolts from his seat and navigates the chaos, finding his way outside the theater, searching for Harry. After much searching he spots him standing in the grass beside one of his classmates, talking and laughing.

 

Louis makes eye contact with him through the crowd. Then he bounds forward and catapults into his arms.

 

“I am so, so, _so_ proud of you,” Louis says into his neck, feeling himself tear up. He doesn’t care that he’s probably embarrassing Harry in front of his friends. He just continues to act on the urge to wrap Harry up in his arms and shower him with kindness until he’s okay again.

 

When Louis pulls away Harry is beaming.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

“So your family wasn’t there,” Louis observes later, leaning across the table and nearly knocking over his glass of beer. Somehow he’s managed to persuade Harry to go out to dinner as a celebration for graduation. Louis is more than a little smug about his small victory.

 

(Plus, Harry looks lovely across the table from Louis in a sheer black long-sleeve shirt and skinny jeans, his hair pushed back by a pair of sunglasses. And it may or may not feel a little bit like a date.)

 

Harry sets the chip he was about to eat back into the basket. “Didn’t expect them to be,” he mumbles offhandedly, taking a sip of his drink.

 

“Can I ask you about them?” Louis inquires tentatively. He taps Harry’s hand with his fingertips, and the action feels unwarrantedly intimate. Louis pulls his hands back to his lap.

 

Harry leans back in his seat and sighs, meal forgotten. But this is good. This is progress. Usually by now Harry is either crying or completely unresponsive and out of it.

 

“What do you want to know?”

 

“Why don’t you speak to them anymore?”

 

Harry taps his fingers on the edge of the table and stares at his napkin contemplatively.

 

“I guess we just sorta grew apart,” he says after a while. “I met-“ he pauses, clenching his jaw, “him… almost as soon as I got to uni, and after that I was just really rude to my mum until she stopped calling. He kinda wanted me to stop talking to them. Like, he never said it out loud but I knew it bothered him that I Skyped my mum and sister every other day. He kinda had the notion that he was the only person I needed, so I should just stop talking to everyone else. And I thought that was normal and how relationships went so I just… went with it, I guess. I know it’s really stupid but I just didn’t know any better.”

 

Oh. “That’s really sad, Haz.”

 

“I know it is,” he murmurs, grabbing his beer and taking a big sip. “I know it is but I don’t know how to fix it.”

 

“It’s never too late to reconcile with them,” Louis points out. “Do they live near London? Can you visit them?”

 

Harry shakes his head. “They’re in Cheshire. And, like… I can’t just show up unannounced. I haven’t spoken to them in years, and they hate me, so…”

 

Louis frowns. “They don’t hate you, Harry, I’m sure of it. No mum hates her child. I bet she misses you a lot, though. Really. You should reach out, try to talk to her. Or your sister—sometimes sisters are easier to deal with. Maybe you can get in contact with her and kinda test the waters and gauge the situation?”

 

“I dunno…”

 

Louis’ frown morphs into a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do, Hazza. But I really think you should give it a go. I think you would feel a lot better, just about everything in general.”

 

Harry picks up the chip he was about to eat minutes ago and chews on it slowly. When he swallows, he says, “okay.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

After the night of Harry’s graduation, Louis sets a plan in place to get Harry out of the flat more often. He had originally tried it that awful day when they ended up at Tesco’s and saw The Monster in the frozen food aisle, but Louis looks at that now as both a false start and a learning experience. Now he decides to keep Harry out of London and far away from any place The Monster would ever even consider going.

 

So that’s how they find themselves camping in a lovely, lonely forest. It’s the weekend after Harry’s graduation, and Harry has been in a slump for so long that Louis is determined to drag him out of it if it kills him in the process. So he proposes his idea to Harry, and Harry agrees (with quite a bit of reluctance). In the end Louis has to pull out the puppy-dog eyes and the full pout before Harry hesitantly complies.

 

They pitch a tent Louis borrowed from his friend on top of a hill that overlooks a beautiful river. Its beauty is in the fact that it is untouched, completely untarnished. Natural and only natural.

 

They hike all day and only get lost a little bit. Harry spends a lot of time chasing butterflies and handing them to Louis when he catches them. (Louis never knows what to do with them so he just lets them go.) Harry picks up a tree frog and lets it crawl down his shirt, where it attaches itself to Harry’s stomach with its sticky little toes, hanging there for hours.

 

Louis likes seeing Harry outside, in nature. He has a constant glow to his face and a hint of a smile even when he’s concentrating hard on crossing a river or reading the compass. He looks so liberated, so free.

 

As night falls they make a bonfire, Louis starting it with his lighter. It fails to catch a few times before they find some dryer wood, and when it finally lights the two embrace in triumph and success. They sit on their raincoats in front of the fire until their skin smells like smoke and earth.

 

When they get too tired to stay up and talk any longer, they crawl into the tent to go to sleep. Louis slips into his sleeping bag and expects Harry to do the same with his own. Except, he doesn’t.

 

“Can I sleep with you?” Harry asks, shivering a bit now that they’re not directly in front of the fire. For a summer night, it’s quite cold outside.

 

Louis raises his eyebrows. “In here?” He asks, a little incredulous, pointing at his sleeping bag which hardly has enough room for him, let alone another person too.

 

Harry nods. “I wanna cuddle.”

 

“I mean, you can try…” Louis offers, lifting the edge of the sleeping bag for Harry to squeeze in. Somehow, with a lot of wiggling, he manages. Louis finds himself curled against Harry, everything about the two of them entangled.

 

“Comfortable?” He asks, his arms around Harry’s waist and Harry’s around his.

 

“Very,” Harry answers, snuggling even closer.

 

For some strange reason, it is now, in this very moment, that Louis realizes how completely _gone_ he is for Harry Styles.

 

Oh god. Okay. Louis can handle this.

 

So he may or may not have a massive crush on a boy who is very, very broken. Okay. Fine. Louis thinks he can fix him. Good, cool, everything is fine. He’s known this for a while, hasn’t he?

 

(In his heart, he knows this is not good. Harry is not ready for a relationship, and he may never be. Louis doesn’t think he can handle the heartbreak. But his heart is already attached. So he has to try, at least. Right? He has to try.

 

Louis stays up late enough for Harry to fall asleep first. The cacophony of Harry’s snores solidifies Louis’ resolve. He’ll help Harry, support him, and wait for him. And he’ll stay with him even if Harry rejects him. That’s what friends are for, and above all, Louis is determined to be a good friend. Harry deserves as many good friends as the universe will allow.

 

Even if Harry can’t love Louis in the way Louis loves him, Louis’ll be okay. He’ll live with it.)

 

His thoughts weigh on him all night.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

In the forest, Harry is free. Yet, back at Louis’ flat, he’s just how he used to be.

 

Nature is a remedy for everything, but it isn’t a permanent cure. Louis is determined to fix Harry, and he knows now there’s no way around the situation but through it. He needs to find a solid solution, one that will actually heal Harry instead of just distracting him from his trauma. He needs to solve the problem at the very core.

 

So he does.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis drives Harry to a family friend, a man he has known since Louis was a kid. He’s a clinical psychologist who specializes in treating post-traumatic stress disorder.

 

He holds Harry’s hand all the way up to the front desk, and stands supportively beside him as he checks in. The receptionist tells them to wait until the counselor is ready, so they sit silently next to each other on the uncomfortable chairs in front of a beautiful fish tank and wait until Harry’s name is called. When a man in a taupe sweater emerges from the hallway that leads to the offices in the back, Louis squeezes Harry’s hand and watches him stand slowly. He’s nervous.

 

“I’ll be here if you need anything, love.”

 

Harry silently meets Louis’ eyes before turning to follow the man. When the door closes behind him, Louis kicks off his shoes and curls up in the seat, staring at the little fishes to pass the time.

 

Boredom arrives quite quickly, and Louis finds himself browsing the crinkled magazines sitting unorganized on the rack. He peruses them but discovers nothing of interest to him, so he moves onto the brochures. One titled _Hope for PTSD_ catches his attention.

 

Traumatic events. Flashbacks, nightmares, and intrusive memories.

 

The section titled _Relationships, Trauma, and PTSD_ says this:

 

“Trauma survivors who have PTSD may have trouble with their close family relationships or friendships. Their symptoms can cause problems with trust, closeness, communication, and problem solving, which may affect the way the survivor acts with others. In turn, the way a loved one responds to him or her affects the trauma survivor. A circular pattern may develop that could harm relationships.”

 

Louis bites his nail and ponders the brochure. It sure makes a lot of sense… Harry being closed-off and guarded, not just with Louis but with anyone else, even his own family…

 

And then the piece about the loved one’s response also affecting the trauma survivor… developing harmful relationships… Louis tries to think back to his interactions with Harry, attempting to evaluate if they were negative or positive or somewhere in-between…

 

(Louis hopes for positive, prays they’re all positive.)

 

Here is Harry: a broken little creature. Estranged from his family, and now from his long-time paramour as well. He is damaged, frightened, and traumatized. He is hurt by his family, confused about love, and all together lost. Yes. Here is Harry: ALONE.

 

Now, Harry is who he is—and he is broken. But there’s something else to it… He is more than broken. He is HUMAN. And humans heal. They grow, and they heal, and they move on. They find ways to repair the damage; they find ways to live with the trauma.

 

There is no wrong in admitting Harry is broken, because brokenness isn’t eternal. It is multifaceted; it is fluid. He may be broken now but he will not be broken forever. This is the reality of life. Time ticks on, and trauma fades away.

 

Here is Harry—the bizarre, broken little creature with the pale, bruised skin and the wide doe eyes. The fearful, frightened eyes. Worried eyes. Wary eyes.

 

Here is Harry, yes, but here is also Louis.

 

Louis is this: alone, just like Harry. Alone in a different way but alone all the same.

 

Louis has a soft spot in his heart for Harry. He always has, ever since that first day he found him curled up in the corner, sleeping surrounded by books upon books. Louis had gently tapped him, tentative, to wake him. And wake he did, eye lashes fluttering sweetly, looking sleepy.

 

There was Louis then: enamored. Completely done for, from the very start. It didn’t even matter Harry had a boyfriend, one who was harsh and cold. Oppressive, even, as he stormed into the bookstore on occasion and nearly dragged Harry out by his hair. When Louis looked closely he saw the bruises poorly covered by cheap concealed; when Louis looked closely he saw the tiredness in Harry’s eyes. He watched from a distance as Harry flinched at loud sounds or unexpected movements. He kept his eye on Harry as Harry isolated himself unknowingly. There was no confidence, no assurance, and no buoyancy. Harry was always distracted, always preoccupied. And his eyes were always puffy and rimmed red, like he had just been crying. Always, constantly.

 

There was Louis then: enamored, charmed, and captivated.

 

Here is Louis now: completely, chillingly, awfully in love.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis wraps his arms around himself as he sits in silence, watching the little fish in the tank as they swim in lazy, dizzy, repetitive circles. He bites the skin of his bottom lap, feeling his stomach turn over and over and over, nervous for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on.

 

Time passes slowly and gently. The light filtering in from the fourth-floor window slowly dims and dulls as the sun sets beyond the horizon. For a fleeting moment the room is bathed in gold light, and then it cools to a shady blue. Louis checks his watch and sees the hour is almost up. The door to the hallway that leads to the offices swings open, and two figures step out.

 

One is the counselor, the man who is Louis’ family friend. He is calm and poised as ever, not quite smiling but his face is soft and reflective. He conveys no emotion but empathy—the reflection of emotion. Louis wonders who he is when he isn’t working, when he isn’t a mirror of his patients. When he doesn’t have to hide his true thoughts and feelings away in the deepest, most untouchable parts of himself.

 

Behind him is Harry. Harry stands slumped, shoulders forward, tin tilted down, gaze on the floor. Everything he’s wearing is Louis’: the jumper, the joggers, even the fuzzy socks. Harry has enough of his own clothes to be wearing them now, but Louis suspects he’s wearing Louis’ for comfort. Louis likes the thought of Harry finding comfort in him.

 

As Louis stands from his seat, the man speaks to Harry quietly and Harry nods, eyes still on the ground. When he’s finished Louis steps closer and smiles softly, hoping to catch Harry’s gaze. It takes a while but eventually he looks up. His eyes are red and puffy, tiny sparkles of tears pricking the corners.

 

“Hey,” Louis begins softly, keeping his voice gentle, “ready to go?”

 

Harry nods, and Louis reaches out for Harry’s hand, silently asking for permission. Harry slips his hand into Louis’, his palm and fingers cold. Louis squeezes kindly to warm them up. He says goodbye to the counselor and the receptionist, and then guides Harry outside, down the hall, and to the elevator. When they’re alone, in the privacy of the small space, Louis holds open his arms and Harry steps forward into them.

 

He presses his face deep into the crook of Louis’ neck. When Louis squeezes him tighter, he feels him tremble.

 

The door dings and opens. Louis nudges him, disentangling his arms but leaving his hand pressed against the small of his back.

 

“C’mon, let’s go home.”

 

They walk in silence down the street, clinging together. Louis knows Harry is frightened of the dark, and Louis himself feels slightly uneasy when they are equidistant from each streetlight, so he hurries his pace. When they’re finally home he lets Harry go, and locks the door to the flat tightly, sliding the deadbolt in place. He’s not willing to take any chances, not now and not ever.

 

“Wanna talk about it?”

 

“Not particularly,” Harry says, slipping out of his shoes and then standing there like he doesn’t know what to do or where to go. (Louis hates when Harry acts like he’s just a guest in Louis’ flat… like he doesn’t belong… like it isn’t his own as well…)

 

Louis kicks his shoes off too. Then he steps over to the couch and flops down, getting comfortable. “Wanna watch a movie then?”

 

“Sure…”

 

He flicks the TV on, flipping through the guide in search of a movie that has just started. “Oh sick, _The Notebook_ just started. You like this one, don’t you?”

 

When he doesn’t respond, Louis looks over at Harry standing in the middle of the room, not doing anything. Harry’s lip quivers. He bursts into tears.

 

And then he runs away.

 

“Harry!” Louis squeaks, completely caught off-guard. He shuffles down the hallway after Harry, nearly running to catch up. They end up in the bedroom, where Harry stands with his back to Louis and his hands covering his face, fierce sobs wracking his body.

 

Louis approaches him slowly as he would a frightened animal. His heart is telling him to engulf Harry in his arms and kiss him better, but he knows that touching Harry without his permission is not the right thing to do. He also knows that this problem is too big to be fixed with hugs and kisses.

 

So he gently lays his hand on Harry’s forearm and tries not to feel hurt or discouraged when Harry jumps in fright and then immediately recoils, curling into himself as if on reflex.

 

“Harry,” Louis says slowly, in a calm voice as far from what he imagines The Monster’s to sound like as he can manage. Even though he’s trying to be calm he knows he sounds worried and worn. “Harry, please tell me what’s going on…”

 

“I don’t know why I’m crying,” Harry moans, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, forcefully wiping the tears away.

 

“Hmm,” Louis ponders, stepping forward to take Harry’s forearms in his hands, pulling them from his face. “Are you frightened? Are you sad?”

 

“I- I don’t know… It’s just- sometimes when you’re so kind to me- I just, it hurts…”

 

“When I’m kind to you?” Louis is bewildered. “Why does that make you sad?”

 

“It doesn’t make me sad,” Harry clarifies, still crying, lip trembling, hands shaking in Louis’ grasp. He struggles to find the right words. “It just- makes me cry. I don’t know—it’s stupid, but- yeah…”

 

Louis furrows his brow. Okay, the clarification only made him more confused. “Are they good tears, then?”

 

“I- don’t know,” Harry sniffles, turning away. He looks embarrassed. After all the tears he’s cried in front of Louis, he should not be embarrassed. “I just, I think I’m overwhelmed.”

 

“Oh.” Louis lets go of his grasp on Harry’s wrists, and they fall to Harry’s sides. “Sorry, I’ll give you some space.”

 

“No!” Harry says with so much urgency that it kinda shocks Louis. “I don’t want you to stop… I- I am just, not used to it, I guess…”

 

“Okay,” Louis is having a hard time following Harry’s train of thought, but he’s really trying. “Um, Harry, could you um, tell me… what you want? Like what is okay and what isn’t? I’m afraid of upsetting you, or hurting you,” he sees the look on Harry’s face, and backtracks, “it’s not your fault, love! It’s mine, honestly-“

 

But Harry is curling in on himself, arms wrapped around himself, whispering in a small voice, “I’m sorry, please don’t- please don’t be mad at me…”

 

Louis immediately stills. “Harry, no, I’m not mad at you,” and okay, wow, Louis’ heart is breaking right now. He wants to reach out and touch Harry to calm him down, but suddenly he doesn’t know where the boundaries are. “I’m not mad at you, honey, I promise I’m not, I could never be mad at you…” Louis shakes his head, the thought of being upset with Harry simply ludicrous. “I just need you to tell me what I can and can’t do with you, okay?”

 

The words came out weirdly, and what he meant to say was _I need you to tell me what our boundaries are_. But he didn’t say it like that and before he could clarify, Harry is already answering:

 

“Anything, anything, anything,” he chants, eyes wide and sparkling with tears and something else. Something innocent and _childlike_. Uh-oh. That’s not good… “Please, you can do anything, anything you want, please, please… just please don’t be mad at me-“

 

Louis backs away slowly and then stills completely. Harry is babbling and crying in the center of the room, telling Louis he can do _anything, anything, anything_ he wants to him… describing things in detail, intimate things, sexual things, vile and grotesque to Louis only because knows that these are things The Monster has done to him… things Harry thinks are normal because he’s never experienced anything different…

 

He uses the promise of sex like an apology and it makes Louis feel sick to his stomach.

 

“Stop,” he says weakly, but Harry doesn’t stop, so he says it louder, this time, orders it in a voice harsher than he’s ever used before with Harry. “Harry, stop!” he cries with force.

 

Harry stops immediately.

 

Louis feels the overwhelming sensation of guilt as it washes over him. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can’t believe he just did that. He can’t believe he just yelled at Harry…

 

Harry sniffles, pawing at the tears streaming down his face. For a moment neither one of them says anything. They just stand there and stare at each other.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispers into the silence. Louis wonders if he’s slipping into sub-space.

 

Louis steps farther away even though every atom in his body is screaming at him to rush forward and wrap Harry in his arms. Louis needs to give Harry space… He is determined not to be manipulative or capricious. He refuses to hurt Harry any further.

 

“Don’t apologize,” Louis denies weakly, already retreating to the hallway. “You did nothing wrong. I’m sorry for yelling at you; I really didn’t mean it. I’m just gonna… give you some space…”

 

Louis spares one last glance at Harry and then rushes away to the living room, collapsing down on the couch. God damn it. _God damn it_.

 

That really did not go as planned.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

As soon as Louis leaves the bedroom, Harry crawls into bed, hoping to fall asleep. He’s desperately confused and conflicted, full of turmoil, and he doesn’t know what to do. Typically everything is clearer in the morning.

 

But. He can’t fall asleep.

 

Harry sits up slowly, debating what to do.

 

Louis had asked Harry to tell him what he _could and couldn’t do to Harry_. What does that even mean? In Harry’s mind everything is muddled, and he sees know how strange everything is but when Louis had asked him he couldn’t help but blurt _anything_.

 

And _anything_ is the truth. Harry trusts Louis like he has never trusted anyone before, and trust is frightening because it gets people hurt. Harry doesn’t exactly want to trust Louis… he doesn’t exactly want to trust anyone, really. But he trusts Louis and Louis only, and he can’t help it. It’s just a fact.

 

Then Louis had yelled. Harry is used to yelling, and it always makes him want to apologize. But Louis didn’t mean to yell, and Harry understands that.

 

Now Louis is upset with himself. Harry can’t have that. So he gets out of bed and goes to the living room.

 

This is unchartered territory. This is uncertainty. This is Harry, for the first time in a long time, fixing things.

 

“Louis?” Harry asks tentatively.

 

Louis looks up sharply from where he’s seated on the couch with his knees to his chest. He looks startled, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open in shock.

 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, um, say what I said. I know it upset you so I just wanna apologize-“

 

Louis unexpectedly jumps up and catapults into Harry’s arms. Harry catches him and stumbles, and lets Louis squeeze the life out of him.

 

“Harry,” he says clearly, pulling back enough that he has the ability to cup Harry’s face in his hands, an intense but jovial look on his face. “Why are you apologizing? You did nothing wrong. I’m the one who needs to apologize, so, like, stop. Okay?”

 

Harry goes to argue but Louis shushes him by gently but insistently pressing his fingers to Harry’s lips.

 

“Shut up. Let me apologize. I’m so sorry for yelling at you, Harry. Like, that was really shitty of me and I’m so sorry, I really wish I hadn’t yelled.”

 

“It’s okay, Lou,” Harry responds, with Louis’ fingers still pressed to his lips. “I understand why you did it. And I’m sorry for freaking out, I don’t mean to but it’s just like a reflex, and I’m trying to like, _not_ do that, but-“

 

Louis dives in again and hugs Harry so tightly he can hardly breathe. It’s a beautiful kind of pressure, another body of warmth and life pressing against his lungs, proving to him that he’s not alone.

 

“We have so much to talk about. Are you okay with talking now?”

 

“Yes, absolutely.”

 

“Wanna drive around? So we’re not cooped up in here?”

 

“I’d love that.”

 

They spend the rest of the day in the car, Louis driving them out of the city and to the beautiful country roads. With the windows rolled down, the fresh air breathes life into them, revitalizing their energy and easing the conversation.

 

They talk about everything. Louis begins by asking about Harry’s therapy session and Harry hesitantly begins to recall his experience, but after a few minutes the stories and conversations flow freely between them.

 

In a way Harry feels as though he’s unzipping his skin to show his insides to Louis. He says the things he’s even afraid to admit to himself, and somehow when he makes these admissions to Louis he feels calmer and more open. Louis listens with attention and is so, so kind and understanding. As he always is with Harry.

 

Harry is unzipping his skin and stepping out of it for the first time in his life. In fact, he thinks this isn’t exactly a normal thing to do. To bare his soul and his entire being to someone. To Louis.

 

But it feels normal. It feels right. It feels calming, like by doing this he and Louis are becoming closer and closer until their souls are happily he pressed against each other.

 

Harry likes the thought of being close to Louis.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

When The Monster would yell, Harry learned to mitigate his own punishment by bargaining with his body. He would open himself up like a flower to a wasp. He would give himself away.

 

He would suffer. He would wither. He would try not to cry.

 

(Painful, un-enjoyable sex was better than the alternative.)

 

The truth is, this was a way of life for Harry. For the longest time, he didn’t think anything of it. This was _normal_.

 

(Imagine this: Harry, but frightened. Scared. Terrified.

 

Now imagine this: Harry, afraid, begging for sex with tears in his eyes. Begging for sex because the alternative is worse.

_Seduce The Monster before he kills you_ —that’s the goal.

 

And this: Harry, escaping to the bathroom and slipping into pale pink lingerie, gazing at himself in the mirror. Looking, and seeing a stranger staring back. A wild animal, a scared deer startled in the middle of the road, a car’s headlights blinding in its eyes. He’ll bite his bottom lip and try to look sexy. He’ll play with the lace and wonder if he looks innocent. He’ll wonder if he looks pure, like The Monster wants him to be, The Monster who calls him a slut and a whore and a harlot, The Monster who says that Harry is tarnished and ruined. Harry wonders if he looks innocent and untainted and tries his hardest to play the part.

 

Then he steps out and crosses the room, lays himself on the bed so he’s open and willing.

 

He plays his part perfectly. He is Lolita. Lolita, the girl stolen away but pretending to lust after monsters just as much as they lust after her. In reality he is trapped, but that doesn’t matter, because during moments like these, he is seductive, he is tempting, he is provocative and luscious and the epitome of desirable. He is the prostitute who claims to love sex, he is the twelve-year-old girl who seduces her stepfather, he is the prey who falls in love with the predator.

 

The Monster doesn’t believe him but it doesn’t matter. He fucks him anyways.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

“I wanna know what it’s like. Like, when it’s real. When you really love someone and they love you back. I wanna try it then. What does it feel like?”

 

Louis bites his thumbnail, feeling his stomach drop at Harry’s questions. He’s talking about sex. Having sex with someone who loves you, instead of with someone who only wants to hurt you.

 

“I don’t know, Harry.”

 

“But haven’t you-“

 

“No, I’ve never been in love, so. No.”

 

Harry looks bewildered and confused. “But I thought you-“

 

Louis sighs, forcing a small laugh out of himself. It comes out sounding more nervous than easygoing. “I’ve had boyfriends before who I’ve liked a lot. Maybe kinda loved. But I’ve never dated anyone I really, really loved. So no, I don’t know what it’s like.”

 

“Oh.” Harry stares out the window for a long, long time. The sun is falling below the horizon, behind the rolling hills of healthy green grass and clovers. The sky is a pale, glowing blue, and the world has a beautiful tint to it. It’s so peaceful out here. So tranquil. He is quiet for a long time as Louis continues driving down the long road. And then:

 

“Louis?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I think I might love you.”

 

Louis tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The world spins, and then rights itself. The suns slips completely beyond the horizon. Its light still lingers.

 

“Don’t say that, Harry. Don’t say that unless you really mean it.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry used to sing.

 

Before he had met The Monster, he used to sing.

 

In the car, he would croon along to the radio, sometimes softly and sometimes obnoxiously. When the song would end his mum would applaud and tell him he was talented, that he could be a professional singer if he wanted. Harry had never even entertained the idea, just simply singing in his own free time and whenever he was bored.

 

But then he met The Monster and The Monster didn’t like when Harry sang.

 

So Harry stopped singing.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry doesn’t believe in love, not anymore at least.

 

This fact is not lost on Louis. He remembers it, and reminds himself of it every night before bed, when Harry is curled up in his arms, soft and sweet and lovely, and Louis heart does nothing but _wants_.

 

Harry is broken, and mending. He doesn’t believe in love.

 

And even if he wasn’t broken, even if he _did_ believe in love, Louis knows he would have no right to love a creature so lovely.

 

So Harry tells Louis _he thinks he might love him_ and Louis tells him not to lie to him again.

 

It’s stupid. It’s painful. Harry might think he means it, but that doesn’t change anything.

 

It doesn’t matter. Louis will suffer regardless, it seems.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

They fall into a routine, after their long car ride in the country. Harry and Louis sort some things out and then silently agree not to discuss them again unless it becomes a necessity.

 

Louis adapts to living with another person in his flat. Harry adapts to living with someone who is unbelievably kind to him. They spend their time learning about each other, and about themselves.

 

If anything, it feels nothing but natural.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Time passes with the ebb and flow of the sun, and summer fades away without a second thought. One day Louis wakes up with a warm, heavy arm thrown over his face, and he realizes it’s nearly October.

 

He breathes into the crook of Harry’s elbow and then rolls over, disentangling their limbs in the process. Harry moans in his sleep, his unconscious self upset at the lack of physical contact. Louis sits up and stares at the man sleeping in his bed.

 

It’s been three months. Louis’ book is finished now, and he’s on the final stages of revising it. His publisher is waiting for the finishing touches, and then it’ll be ready for print. He’s nervous, of course, but so, so ready to be done with the novel he’s been working on for more than a year. In hindsight, a year isn’t a very long time in terms of book-writing, but it also feels like eons. He just wants it to be out of his hands and in print.

 

June was the month of healing, for both of them. Harry began therapy and went twice a week, every Tuesday and Thursday, for the remainder of the summer. At first, it seemed to do more harm than good, making him feel exhausted and miserable. He would leave the room with puffy eyes rimmed red and a stuffy nose from crying, and Louis would meet him at the door to wrap him in a tight hug. They always walked home together, not speaking, wordlessly agreeing not to speak of Harry’s therapy.

 

But after a few weeks, Louis noticed a change. Harry became lighter: his mood, his tone of voice, his disposition, everything. Louis could see it in his eyes—the heaviness lifted.

 

July was the month of recovery… and sleep. Louis wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something about mid-summer that made him want to take a nap, almost constantly. So that’s what they did. Whenever Harry and Louis’ free time coincided, they napped together. Warm sun-kissed limbs tangled together between soft white sheets, sleepy eyes, slowed heartbeats…

 

August and September are months of exploration. As Harry heals, he begins to cry significantly less, which they soon find opens up a lot of free time. So they spend hours at the bookstore, Harry reading every single book he finds interesting, Louis working to make the extra money he needs to support the two of them.

 

Harry feels incredibly guilty for freeloading off of Louis, living in his flat and eating his food and all that, but Louis reassures him a million times that it’s fine, he’s glad to help. Harry decides to pull his own weight by cooking dinner, washing their laundry, and doing the shopping—although he has to walk twice as far in order to avoid the Tesco’s where they saw The Monster so many months ago.

 

The Monster. Harry still thinks about him all the time. Every single day of his fucking miserable life.

 

He thinks about The Monster as soon as he wakes up, when he feels someone’s arms around him and for a small moment of insanity thinks it’s his old boyfriend, suffocating him. It always takes a moment for him to realize it’s not The Monster next to him but rather the kind creature he met at the bookstore. Louis.

 

He thinks about The Monster as he gets dressed for the day, catching himself wondering if The Monster would approve of whatever he decides to wear. He pushes the invasive thoughts from his mind with a weird grimace and dresses purposefully unlike The Monster’s preferences in an act of defiance. He wears bright, pretty colors now, and softer pastels too. His favorite is pale petal pink, the color The Monster hated the most.

 

He especially thinks about The Monster as he waits for the shower to heat up, staring at his blurry reflection in the foggy mirror and seeing the gruesome scars carved onto his skin. This is the same body The Monster touched. The same body The Monster defiled. It is broken, tortured, ugly. Harry always has to turn away before the urge to drown himself in the bath becomes any more potent.

 

But Louis helps. A million times over, Louis helps. He makes Harry feel safe, physically safe in the seclusion of his flat, but also emotionally safe, safe enough to be the person he truly is. Harry isn’t exactly sure who he is, but he’s relieved to not have to hide, to not have to suppress certain parts of himself in order to please someone else. He just tries to do what makes him happy, and Louis is nothing but supportive and encouraging.

 

It’s something he’s never really experienced before… not to this extent at least.

 

And, well. It’s nice.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Love sneaks up on him.

 

It’s mid-October when he looks at Louis, who is very focused and intent on searching for the carton of strawberries that looks best, when the thought hits him.

 

_I love you._

 

Harry bites his lip, trying not to panic. Panic seeps into his veins anyway, so at the very least, he tries not to let it show, but clearly his plan doesn’t work because as soon as Louis glances over at him and catches his eyes, he frowns.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Harry responds, way too quickly.

 

This is a different kind of revelation from months ago, because then his only thought was _I think I might love you._ But now, somehow, suddenly even, the word _might_ has been omitted altogether. And the _I think_ too. Now that the uncertainties have fallen away, the sentence spells something else out entirely.

 

_I love you. I love you._ The words echo in his mind and for a moment as he stares at Louis it’s the only thought he can comprehend.

 

Louis squints at him uneasily. Then he grabs his hand and interlaces their fingers, returning to his task of searching for strawberries. Harry intends to help him, but his mind is such a mess that he does nothing but get in Louis’ way.

 

“Harry, seriously, what’s wrong?” Louis presses the back of his hand to Harry’s forehead, presumably checking for a fever. Then he takes Harry’s face in his hands and runs his thumb along Harry’s bottom lip. The rest of the produce aisle and the entire grocery store falls away. They might as well have been on Mars and Harry wouldn’t have noticed. “You look very pale,” Louis observes quietly.

 

“I’m fine,” Harry promises, leaning further into Louis’ touch.

 

Louis looks as though he doesn’t believe him. He observes him once more, searching his face for any indication of conflict, and then lets go of Harry’s face, only to wind his arm around his waist and tuck Harry into his side. They head to the checkout together, the search for strawberries long forgotten.

 

They walk home in the dark, each of them with an equal amount of plastic bags in their hands, containing the ingredients for the following week’s meals. They are silent, each entranced in thought, until Harry speaks up.

 

“I never asked you what you said to him.”

 

“Hm?”

 

A warm heat rises to Harry’s face, despite the bone-chilling October air blowing harshly. He isn’t exactly sure why he’s blushing, but suspects it’s because he’s internally acknowledging the fact that he’s been staying with Louis for nearly six months now.

 

“Um, a little while after you found me, when we went to Tesco’s together? And you saw him? You said something to him, and you never told me what.”

 

“Oh. Um, hang on a sec.”

 

They’re at the door now, Louis clumsily unlocking it since there are so many bags in his hands. Once they’re inside and the bags are set down on the kitchen counter, Louis turns to Harry and meets his eyes.

 

“I just told him to stay the fuck away from you, and if he ever even tried to come near you again, I would kill him and make it look like an accident.”

 

Harry’s mouth falls open in surprise. The blush to his cheeks remains, if not increases. Despite being frightened, a warm feeling blossoms in the pit of his stomach and expands until it reaches his chest.

 

“What did he say to you?”

 

“He called me nearly every cussword in existence and then said I was taking advantage of you. And that you still loved him, and- Yeah.”

 

“And what?”

 

Louis shakes his head. “Nothing, that’s all he said.”

 

“No it isn’t. Tell me,” Harry pleads.

 

Louis sighs, looking conflicted. “He said something weird, like how he, like, _trained_ you, and that you’ll only ever love him. And then he said something _really_ fucking weird, like, how he …ruined you, so you’d never be able to be with anyone else. He could’ve meant a lot of things by that, but he was really just talking shit, so. I told him to fuck off, and then you came. So. Yeah.”

 

Harry’s gaze drops to the kitchen floor, and he stares at it for a long time, wrapping his arms around himself. At the word ruined, of course, he flashes back to the day he finally ran away. Right before The Monster got in the shower and unknowingly granted Harry the opportunity to leave. Right then, when he was still on top of Harry.

 

_YOU’RE MINE_ , he had growled, screamed, even bitten the words into Harry’s skin. _YOU’RE MINE._

_EVEN IF I LET YOU LEAVE, NO ONE WOULD EVER WANT YOU._

_HOW DOES IT FEEL? HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE RUINED? HOW DOES IT FEEL TO KNOW NO ONE WANTS YOU? HOW DOES IT FEEL TO KNOW YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A WHORE? WORTHLESS AND DEFILED. YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A RUINED WHORE._

 

“He ruined me,” Harry whispers, nodding in agreement. It’s the truth.

 

“Harry, no, you’re wrong, and he is too. He didn’t ruin you. You can’t ‘ruin’ someone by having sex with someone. That’s literally insane. Sex is just like, a thing… that people do. It can’t ruin you. Who you have sex with or how you do it has no effect on your worth, unless you’re like your fucking asshole of a boyfriend who literally forced you to have sex with him, in which case, it makes him pretty much completely worthless. But the fact that he did that to you does not make you any less of a good person. You’re literally, like, an angel, okay? And even if you slept with a new person every day, that wouldn’t change anything, just as if you never sleep with anyone again. Got it?”

 

“But-“

 

“No, Harry, listen to me. You are still just as pure and beautiful and lovely as you were before he touched you. Whatever he did to you doesn’t change that, because whatever he did to you can’t reach that part of you—the part that matters. You are still you, and you always will be. No one can ‘ _ruin’_ you by touching you. None of that has any effect on who you are as a person. And if you ever find anyone who doesn’t want you because of what he did to you, or just because of your sex life in general, then that’s on them. It’s not your fault at all and doesn’t make you any less of a person, even if some dickhead decides they don’t want you because they think you’re ‘ruined.’ And honestly, Harry, if someone ever says something like that to you, you need to tell me, like, immediately, so I can go beat their ass.”

 

Harry squeaks out a feather-light laugh, and it makes Louis’ angered expression lift into a small, momentary smile.

 

“How are you so good at all of this?”

 

Louis’ leans back and braces his hands on the countertop, smile returning. “Well, I’ve had sex with my fair share of people, and if I believed that sleeping with the wrong person diminished my value as a human being, I would probably be pretty unhappy guy now. Luckily I’ve realized that isn’t true, and I hope you do too.”

 

Harry crosses the kitchen, his heart swelling in his chest, and hugs Louis tightly. Again, he thinks, _I love you. I love you._

 

“I’m so lucky to have you,” he says instead. His voice is muffled by the material of Louis’ jumper. “I’m so glad you found me.”

 

“I’m so glad I found you, too.”

 

“You make me feel safe.”

 

Louis pets Harry’s hair softly and holds him tighter. Harry never, ever wants to leave his warm embrace.

 

“You deserve to feel safe. Always.”

 

Harry starts crying. He hasn’t cried in a while, but it feels kinda nice, to cry wrapped up in Louis’ arms. To cry on Louis’ shoulder. To cry, not because he’s afraid, not because he’s in pain—but because he’s in love.

 

“Why are you crying, baby?”

 

“I don’t ever want to leave you,” he sniffles.

 

Louis gently rocks him back and forth in his arms. When he slips his hands beneath the bottom of Harry’s top and drums his fingers on the skin of his hips, Harry melts into him further.

 

“You don’t ever have to. I’ll always be here, for you. I promise.”

 

Harry pulls away enough to look at Louis’ face. He stares into his eyes, pale blue and shining in the dim kitchen light.

 

“What would you say if I asked you to kiss me?”

 

“I would call you crazy,” Louis responds, looking away.

 

Harry leans back in and rests his head on Louis’ shoulder. “But would you do it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And what would you say if I asked you to take me to bed?”

 

“Depends on what you mean by ‘bed.’”

 

“More than sleep.”

 

Louis squeezes Harry’s hips, and then drops his arms from around him and steps away, creating a small distance between them. The smile on his face is small, but its light resembles the brightness and warmth of the sun

 

“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “But not tonight.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

On Halloween night, two weeks later, Louis stands in front of the bathroom mirror staring at the cat ears on his head. He’s half convinced he’s crazy, but mostly convinced he’s doing this just for Harry.

 

He sighs, adjusting the ears and then clasping the black choker around his neck. It has a tiny golden bell on it that chimes when he moves. Oh, god. Louis sighs again, relieved he isn’t wearing a tail. Then he exits the bathroom and goes searching for Harry.

 

He’s in the bedroom, as it turns out, and when Louis walks in he’s fully decked out in his costume, and leaning over the vanity, applying winged eyeliner. He’s dressed up like a bumblebee, in a jumper with yellow and black horizontal stripes, and a headband on with black antennae. Louis waits patiently for him to finish his makeup, not wanting to mess him up. When Harry finishes, he turns towards Louis and a bright, wide smile lights up his face.

 

“Lou!” He cheers, smile widening still. “You look so cute!”

 

“You too, little bumblebee.”

 

Harry squeezes him in a hug. “Thank you for dressing up for me.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis waves his hand dismissively. “Let’s just go to Niall’s, yeah?”

 

Niall’s flat isn’t too far away, but Louis isn’t exactly comfortable with the two of them walking through the city so late at night, dressed like a kitten and a bee, so they drive instead. Louis parallel-parks like a champ and Harry applauds him, impressed. They walk up to the door of Niall’s flat hand in hand, and the strange thing is it just feels normal. They aren’t dating, haven’t discussed anything even remotely like that, and nothing has happened since Harry asked Louis hypothetically if he would kiss him and Louis said yes.

 

The only physically intimate thing they’ve done is physically, literally sleep together, as in next to each other. Mostly it’s for comfort, and the fact that Harry has said on multiple occasions that he sleeps better when they share a bed. Louis aims to please and thus they spend their nights on his bed, curled up together. Louis hadn’t realized how awesome sleeping with someone was until he actually did, with Harry. Just the feeling of a warm body pressed against his own was enough to calm him down and send him to sleep quicker than ever. The only problem was it made it that much harder to get out of bed in the morning.

 

Harry is getting better, day by day. Slowly. The maxim _time heals all wounds_ isn’t completely true, but it’s honest in a few ways. Time has healed Harry’s physically wounds, true, but the scars on his back from when he was hit by the car still remain. And even then there are the scars on his thighs and hips, the one from The Monster that says that dreadful word, and the others from Harry when he locked himself in the bathroom and took a knife to his own skin.

 

But time doesn’t heal the psychological damage, at least not completely. What time really does is it dulls the pain of his memories. It eases his fears, and though Harry is still afraid to go into that Tesco, he’s okay with mentions of anything explicitly sexual, unlike in the beginning when he used to curl in on himself and drift off to another world. Time alleviates the oppression of his trauma, but only partly. The thing about trauma is that it’s persistent, and stubborn. It’ll take years for him to be fully himself again—himself, as in the person he was before the abuse.

 

But even then, Louis thinks, he’ll never really be the same. He can’t be, right? That’s not how life works. But it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing wrong with being different than you used to be, and even if there was, there would be no way to go back. So they look away from the past, and move forward.

 

Last night Harry had stayed up late, reading pages from the poetry books Louis had left out for him to look at. While he sat with his back against the wall, using the light from the lamp on the bedside table, Louis curled up and snuggled by his side. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he was just so warm and comfortable, content to just watch Harry as he read, reading pretty lines to Louis and sometimes even entire poems. Louis has read them all before, but in Harry’s voice they sounded different.

 

And that was how he fell asleep, with this boy in his bed, reading him love poems. This boy who Louis had saved from a car accident, but even saved him before then too, every time he talked to Harry in the bookstore. He hadn’t known it then, hadn’t known the abuse Harry faced every time he went home, hadn’t known that he was well and truly the only source of light in Harry’s life at the time.

 

And then that night he had been outside for a smoke, clutching the cigarette in his left hand as he thought of the footy match on that night, and the bar he was supposed to meet Niall at, and all of his other trivial obligations. And then he saw a blur of movement and a car slamming on its breaks, and a body hitting the ground. Well, not just hitting the ground, but slamming into it, and sliding against it. Louis had rushed over without a second thought, reaching the stranger and immediately pulling him into his arms.

 

And then he realized the stranger in his arms wasn’t a stranger at all. It was Harry.

 

He remembers the night he found him, and how he was so frightened and afraid and alone. He remembers taking him back to his flat and bandaging his wounds. He remembers stroking Harry’s hair as he told him secret upon secret, an entire novel of the awful things The Monster had subjected him to, for years. The abuse, not just physical, not just verbal, not just sexual, not just emotional, but abuse in every aspect of his life.

 

He remembers all the nights he caught Harry harming himself, with a knife or a safety pin or even his own fingernails. He remembers all the nights he pulled those weapons out of Harry’s hands, cleaned his wounds, and held him close until he either stopped crying or fell asleep.

 

He remembers all the times Harry dissociated, all the times he slipped into subspace, all the times he begged for Louis to do whatever he pleased with him because Harry thought he deserved the abuse.

 

He remembers all the conversations he’s had with Harry, late at night, about serious things like life and love and abuse, and moving on. He remembers Harry telling him he no longer believed in love. He remembers Harry months later then telling him _I think I might love you_.

 

He remembers the realization Louis had when he finally grasped the fact that he was the one who got Harry to believe in love.

 

He remembers the first time he wanted to say _I love you_ to Harry, after he ran into The Monster at Tesco’s and saw how awful he really was. He remembers feeling crushed because that was before Harry admitted he believed in love again. He remembers resigning himself to loving Harry anyway, even though he thought he could never love him back. Because that’s what love is, isn’t it? Love isn’t selfish. Love exists even if it gets nothing back in return.

 

Most of all, Louis remembers all the nights they’ve spent together since then, bundled up beneath the duvet, legs entangled, arms around each other, Harry’s face pressed to Louis’ chest, Louis’ nose nuzzled in Harry’s hair. Louis remembers all of these nights because they are so, so important to him. All the times they held each other and were held by each other, simultaneously, in a perfect give and take. When their bodies were pressed against each other’s, not a lick of space between them… those were the nights when everything in the entire fucking universe just felt right. Like a wave of calm and understanding washing over them, this sense that everything would be okay, as long as they had each other.

 

Louis remembers all of this as he walks up to Niall’s flat with his right hand clasped tightly in Harry’s left. Louis is dressed as a cat and Harry is dressed as a bumblebee and they look like idiots but it’s Halloween and it doesn’t matter at all, because they’re together. They’re with each other. In a world where their fingers are entwined, the universe is righted. Everything is as it should be.

 

The door is unlocked, and they enter together without much hesitation. Inside, music is blaring and there are people everywhere. Half are dressed in costume, and half aren’t, but with the way Harry had looked at Louis earlier, he’s glad he dressed up. They spot Niall almost immediately, drinking a beer and talking to a large group of girls standing near the door.

 

When he sees them, he excuses himself and runs up to them, giving Louis a big hug, and then hugging Harry too. He says something, his face lit up in a smile, but the music is too loud so Louis just nods and leads Harry inside, where they get lost in the darkness and the crowd. All Louis knows is that his hand is in Harry’s, and he uses it like a lifeline. Like an anchor. Everything around them is chaos, but when they’re with each other, Louis feels calm.

 

“Oh!” Harry squeaks, and if it hadn’t been directly in Louis’ ear, he wouldn’t have heard. “I see someone I know.”

 

Louis gestures for Harry to lead the way, so they walk to the edge of the kitchen where Harry approaches a man leaning against the wall, animatedly talking to another guy. When he sees Harry, his expression becomes guarded. Louis stays back but watches as they have a short conversation. He wonders where Harry met this guy, how they know each other and all that.

 

When Harry comes back, conversation ended, Louis asks him.

 

“He’s a tarot-reader,” Harry explains, nearly shouting in his ear, but over the music it’s still difficult to hear. “He read my future a while ago, and I wanted to thank him.”

 

“Oh?” Louis responds, a question in his voice. That’s definitely not something you hear every day. “Was it accurate?”

 

Harry nods, and even in the lack of light Louis can see his cheeks heat up. “Yeah, very.”

 

Louis hums in response, not sure what that means exactly. “Let’s get something to drink, yeah?”

 

Harry agrees, so they head into the kitchen and they both grab a beer. After that, Louis spots Liam and they hang out with him and his other friends.

 

For as long as they’re there, Harry and Louis remain side by side, fingers entwined. Harry is much more relaxed than he’s ever been, and in turn that relaxes Louis as well. It seems as if their emotions are linked just as much as their hands.

 

Louis likes this—a lot, in fact. He is so undeniably at peace with this, right here, right now.

 

Things aren’t perfect, far from it, actually. But they’re working on it.

 

Harry is healing. Louis is helping him. They’re living, growing together. Everything is okay. Everything will be okay.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

It’s three AM when they get back to Louis’ flat. Harry is pleasantly drunk, but Louis is completely sober since he was the one who drove, and he only had one beer at Niall’s.

 

Everything is fuzzy. Warm.

 

Louis leads Harry up the stairs and inside. Harry clings to his arm and laughs when Louis stops abruptly and he bumps into him. Louis rolls his eyes and moves to take his cat ears off but Harry stops him.

 

“Don’t,” he whines, leaning so close to Louis they’re sharing the same breath. “You’re so cute with them on.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes but leaves them on. Harry may be drunk but he knows Louis is placating him.

 

“Will you kiss me now?” He asks, hopeful.

 

“No. You’re drunk.”

 

Harry frowns but knows better to argue, especially when sunshiney bright Louis is grabbing his hands and leading him to the bedroom. Harry follows happily and lets Louis pull him all the way down the hall, into the room, and on the bed. He stays still and patient as Louis changes him out of his costume and into his pajamas. Harry feels warm and happy, especially when Louis’ hands are touching him so gently.

 

Harry smiles and reaches his arms out, grasping Louis’ face. “Hello, Mr. Sun,” he greets happily, pulling himself up and managing to plant a big kiss on Louis’ lips before he has the chance to pull away. The shocked look on Louis face is enough to make him giggle for minutes afterwards.

 

“Good God, go to bed,” sunshiney bright Louis says to him, sounding annoyed but a little bit endeared.

 

“Aren’t you staying with me?” Harry asks, confused. Louis always stays with him. Why is he leaving the room?

 

“You’re drunk, and trying to kiss me,” Louis deadpans, looking unamused.

 

“But we always cuddle,” Harry pouts.

 

Louis looks very conflicted, for a very long moment. He finally concedes, huffing a low “fine,” before changing into his pajamas. Harry tries not to stare too much, but he can’t help but admire Louis’ soft, warm tummy when he switches shirts.

 

“Move over,” Louis orders once he’s finished and sliding into bed, and Harry obliges, scooting all the way over to the edge of the bed. When Louis gets settled he moves back towards him, wrapping his arms and legs around him like a koala. He presses his face into Louis’ armpit.

 

“I love you,” he says, and wonders why he hasn’t said it out loud before. He really, really does love sunshiney bright Louis. “You make me feel safe,” Harry tells him. “You saved me.”

 

Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s back and rubs his spine comfortingly.

 

Harry may be drunk, but he’s lucid enough to realize that the next thing Mr. Sunshiney Bright Louis says to him is a big deal.

 

“I love you too, honey.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Harry wakes up four hours later to the sound of relentless wind blowing raindrops against the windows. It’s dark, still, and the weather outside makes him feel even more cozy wrapped up beneath the duvet, snuggled up against a warm body.

 

It’s November first. It’s been more than six months since he ran away from an abusive relationship.

 

It’s November first, and Harry Styles still loves Louis Tomlinson.

 

“Lou,” Harry nudges him gently and when he doesn’t wake up, he does it again. “Lou.”

 

“Mmm?” Louis asks in a murmur, and with the way they’re holding each other his mouth is pressed to the top of Harry’s head.

 

Harry repeats the words he said last night, and isn’t surprised to find them to be just as true.

 

“I love you.”

 

Louis pulls out of their embrace just enough to look into Harry’s eyes. Harry stares right back, unwavering. He is no longer afraid to declare his love, and he isn’t sure why he was in the first place. Louis won’t hurt him—he’s sure of this. Louis is kind and gentle and good. Louis saved Harry. Louis makes him feel safe.

 

Louis smiles softly. “I’m glad you can say it when you’re sober. I love you too, H. Now go back to sleep.”

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

The first time they really kiss isn’t until December.

 

They had been discussing the holidays, sitting on the couch together and watching Christmas movies as they wrapped presents for Louis’ family. Harry still hasn’t made any attempts to contact his mum or his sister, but Louis is working on him. He’s certain it’ll happen eventually. For now, they’ll spend Christmas at Louis’ mum’s place.

 

When it happens, it isn’t planned at all. It’s very spontaneous. It’s just after dinner, and they’re doing the dishes together. Harry washes and Louis rinses. They’re talking about Louis’ family, and Harry is saying something about being nervous to meet Louis’ family for real this time. He’s embarrassed about all those months ago when Louis’ mum drove all the way down to London to make sure everything was okay. Harry’s cheeks are pink, and his hands shake as he washes the pot they used to make spaghetti.

 

And, well.

 

Louis just leans over and kisses him mid-sentence to shut him up.

 

(They don’t end up finishing the dishes that night. They just kiss and kiss and kiss in the kitchen until they get tired from standing, and then they kiss all the way to the bedroom, stumbling through the hallway.

 

Harry collapses backwards on the bed and Louis jumps on top of him, and they make out until they fall asleep.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

 

A few weeks later, Louis is sitting on the bed staring at his empty suitcase. They’re leaving to visit his family in a few hours, and he still needs to pack.

 

Harry plops down on his lap, straddling him.

 

“Happy birthday. Have sex with me?”

 

Louis laughs, but feels that familiar heat building up in his core. “Are you sure?”

 

Harry frowns. “What do you mean, are you sure? I’ve been begging you for months!” He bounces up and down a few times for emphasis. Louis groans.

 

“Okay, fiiiine.”

 

“Yay,” Harry cheers, tackling Louis to the bed and attacking him with kisses.

 

Louis lets it go on for a while, until he gets bored and uses his body weight to flip Harry beneath him. He sits down hard on Harry’s hips and smiles at the sight of him, rosy-cheeked and breathless.

 

“Harry?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“If you want me to stop, just tell me, okay?”

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“No Harry, seriously.” Louis pokes him in the dimple. “Just say the word and we’ll stop. Okay? Even if you just feel uncomfortable. Tell me. Promise?”

 

“I promise.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

 

(Harry thinks that perhaps the world is driven by passion.)

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

One year later, Harry Styles has a beautiful ruby ring on his left hand.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

As time passes, the sun rises.

 

Life gets better. Life moves on.

 

Trauma lingers, and remains still—yet, it diminishes, ever so slowly.

 

There are bad days, of course there are bad days, and there always will be bad days. Those days when Harry has that wicked urge to hurt himself, to end himself, because the pain is too much, the thoughts are too loud. But he has a boy, the boy he met at the bookstore. The boy who woke him up that first day with a gentle touch to his shoulder, telling him it was closing time.

 

Harry will always have Louis. Louis, the man who makes him feel safe. Louis, the man who saved him, and will continue to save him, again and again and again.

 

And Harry will save him too. They will save each other. Because their love is unselfish. Their love is requited and equal. Their love is strong.

 

To every bad day there are hundreds of good days, days where they are on top of the world and nothing can bring them down.

 

Harry will always remember his past. It’s something that never really goes away. He has no choice in the matter. He will never forget The Monster, or what he did to him. Sometimes he still wakes up and thinks it’s The Monster’s arms around him. And it takes him a moment to realize that no, no, it’s just his husband. His husband. Louis. The person who loves him. The person who makes him feel safe.

 

Harry will always remember his past, but he will always have Louis with him to bring him out of it. He will always have Louis to distract him, to bring him a good book and rub his back as he reads. For years to come, he will always have Louis to help him cope.

 

They grow old together. They learn to play the guitar together—that old guitar Harry found hidden away in Louis’ closet so many eternities ago. They compile a life’s library together, transporting books from homes to homes as they move throughout their lives.

 

They live together, and they love together.

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

So many eternities ago, Harry was certain the world was driven by fear.

 

Later, he considered that perhaps it was driven by passion.

 

Now, he knows for certain:

 

The world is ruled by love, and love alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elaboration on this scene:
> 
> _Harry plops down on his lap, straddling him._
> 
> _"Happy birthday. Have sex with me?"_
> 
> _Louis laughs, feeling that familiar heat building up in his core. "Are you sure?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content is discussed but not actually carried out in this scene. If you have any questions feel free to [message me.](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/ask)

 

 

_Every day I used to wish I were dead  
but now all I want is to live._

_I want to be all of the things I am  
all at once until I die._

_I want to feel everything._

 

—Joshua Jennifer Espinoza, from I’m alive / it hurts / I love it

 

 

 

 

 

_Pull yourself together_ , the ghost of his reflection screams at him frustratedly. _Stop fucking crying and get over yourself._

 

A few tears spill out anyways, streaming down his face and creating glimmering rivulets that glisten in the fluorescent light of the bathroom. The backwards image of himself, reflected in the mirror in front of him, glares at the tears as they streak his cheeks, very unimpressed.

 

_For fuck’s sake Harry, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER._

 

With a quite whimper he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes to stop the determined tears from falling.  His heart is racing and there isn’t any reason for it.

 

I want to do this, he tells himself quietly in his mind. I have to do this. Please, I have to do this.

 

Dark, dull green eyes stare fiercely back at him. He tears his gaze away, frightened by his own reflection, and instead fusses over the lingerie he’s wearing: baby-blue lace panties with a big silk bow right above his bum. When he purchased them, just days ago, he felt so brave. Strong, even. But now, with the lace on his skin, his stomach fluttering nervously, his heart pounding, he feels weak.

 

Weak, and dizzy. Dizzy like he’s going to pass out dizzy. He sits down on the closed toilet lid in an attempt at not passing out. Dark blurry dots flicker in his vision, influencing him to let his eyelids fall shut in order to stop the incessant spinning. He rests his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, crying even more now.

 

God, he can’t do this. Why did he think he could do this?

 

When he reopens his eyes he immediately sees the scars covering his ugly pale thighs. The word WHORE carved in sharp but slanting letters makes him nauseous. A permanent reminder of the torture he endeared for years, and still relives in his nightmares even to this day.

 

Just last night he woke up gasping for breath, hands clenched so tightly his nails cut crescent moons into his palms until they leaked blood all down his wrists, ruining the sheets.

 

Harry’s terror and labored breathing had woken Louis, who sat up quickly and pulled Harry’s hands into his own immediately upon seeing the blood, even in the darkness of their bedroom.

 

“ _Shhh, shhh, it’s okay_ ,” Louis had whispered to him to get him to calm down, voice quiet and sweet and comforting. Euphony above the cacophony of Harry’s terror. And Harry just trembled and sobbed and wished, for the millionth time, to be dead. _It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe here. You’re safe here._

 

He had been dreaming of The Monster again, as he nearly always does. Sometimes he’s lucky enough to not remember his dreams at all, but even then he knows his subconscious is occupied by very terrible images and memories. Most of the time he wakes up shaking so badly Louis has to hold him for nearly an hour before he calms down enough to stop.

 

Now, sitting in the bathroom with his head in his hands, Harry eyes the ugly scars on his ugly thighs. He wants to be intimate with Louis but there’s no way he can—not with the gruesome marks marring his body, a constant reminder of words like _abuse, torture, violence,_ and _agony_.

 

But he has to. In his mind, he needs to do this. He must.

 

Louis deserves more than someone so broken as Harry. Louis deserves a whole person who can safely love him and even make love to him. Harry isn’t that person but he’s so desperate to try to be whatever Louis needs, whatever he deserves.

 

They started kissing two weeks ago and they haven’t stopped since then. It has never progressed to anything more, and Harry is starting to get worried that Louis doesn’t want to be intimate with him. That he’s just kissing Harry because he feels bad for him. Pities him, even.

 

Harry still blushes to remember the first time they really kissed, that day in the kitchen when they were doing the dishes and discussing their plans for the holidays. He had been so worried about spending Christmas with Louis’ family, partly because Jay had seen Harry at his lowest, but also because Harry knew he didn’t match up to anything Louis truly deserved in a friend or a boyfriend. Not that they were boyfriends, but sometimes Harry thought about it when he was feeling particularly romantic and it always made his heart swell against his ribcage in enthusiasm.

 

He had been saying something about Jay not liking him when Louis set down the plate he was currently washing and herded Harry back against the countertop, bracketing him in and pushing their hips together softly.

 

“Can I kiss you?” He had asked, grasping Harry by the hips so tenderly his knees buckled and he nearly melted to the floor. Louis was truly a gift in every way possible and Harry didn’t know how to respond. It was just… Louis was angelic and there was no other way to explain it.

 

Lovesick and dazed, Harry somehow found the courage to lean down and press their lips together devotedly. Pleasure extended throughout his body, making him warm and glowy. When they finally pulled back, Louis was smiling sweetly up at him, radiant and beautiful like something ethereal. An angel but more wonderful, more real, more human. His pretty blue eyes were sparkling and Harry nearly fainted with the weight of his affection for Louis.

 

To stop himself from fainting, it was Harry who leant forward again and kissed Louis passionately. For once he truly felt more than just okay, he felt good. Great, even, with the way Louis caressed the skin of his hips and traced his laurels with reverent strokes of his fingers. Harry reached his hands up to cradle Louis’ face and kiss him harder. They made out for a while in the kitchen, dishes long forgotten.

 

It was strange how comfortable it was for Harry to lose himself in Louis. Strange because Harry wasn’t even comfortable in his own skin. But Louis somehow managed to push all of that away, to make the bad feelings disappear and replace them with only good ones, like love and affection and desire.

 

Louis took care of Harry in every way and this was evident even in the way he kissed him. Softly, like he was preventing Harry from shattering. Like he was afraid if he pressed hard enough, Harry would wither, turn to ash, and blow away like dust. He stroked Harry’s skin carefully, making him shiver with how good it felt, and pressed their lips together so lovingly his heart had no choice but to flutter happily, so elated to finally feel this way—cared for, enamored, and in love—after so long.

 

Wordlessly they stumbled to the bedroom, lips still attached with fervor. Everything was slow and sweet but passionate too. There was no rush and they were so in love, the perfect storm to kiss for hours and hours with no pressure for it to lead anywhere else. When the backs of Harry’s knees hit the mattress he let gravity carry him backwards, and Louis fell on top of him, lips chasing his.

 

Louis murmured, “I love you,” as he traced his lips from Harry’s jaw to his throat, sucking a faint mark on his neck followed quickly by a few more, like he couldn’t get enough of the feeling of marking Harry.

 

“Love you too,” Harry had gasped, feeling breathless. He hadn’t known what to do with his hands so they hovered awkwardly in the air for a moment. Louis noticed, attentive at always, and brought one of Harry’s hands to his head. Hesitantly, he entangled his fingers in Louis’ hair before petting him gently, trying to replicate what Louis always did to him when he would lie his head on his lap as they sat on the couch during a movie. Louis was so good at it, stroking his hair and using his nails to gently scratch, sending pleasured chills down Harry’s spine, that Harry could only hope he somewhat replicated Louis’ technique.

 

It seemed to work, with the way Louis nearly purred, humming in encouragement. So Harry became a bit more confident and added his other hand to Louis’ hair, twirling the soft locks between his fingers and trying not to moan as Louis kissed down his neck to his collarbones, leaving love bites all the way down.

 

Eventually Harry got tired of not having Louis’ lips against his own, so he decided to fix the problem himself by tilting Louis’ chin upward and kissing him again. Louis met him with equal enthusiasm, rolling their hips together like he was afraid to leave even a millimeter of space between their bodies. Like as close as they were, pressed completely against each other, wasn’t close enough.

 

So they kissed because it felt good, and because they didn’t need to speak or even think as they did it. They kissed because it cleared Harry’s mind and made both of them feel wanted and loved. They kissed because it said so much in just a simple physical action.

 

It was so much. So much, and almost too much. Almost too much in a lot of ways, because here was Harry who was still broken and damaged even six months after he was last touched in an intimate way and that was exactly what had destroyed him. It’s so much, almost too much, and also almost not enough. Not enough, because there’s this very acute burning in Harry’s core, this thrum of his veins that screams for more.

 

So he wants to be intimate with Louis, then. Not just kissing, not just touching, but more.

 

At the moment when they were making out in bed, tangled up in the sheets and rocking their bodies together like ocean waves, Harry wasn’t emotionally ready to actually go further than kissing. That was all they did, anyways, like Louis knew implicitly that Harry wasn’t in the right state of mind to fuck, or make love, or whatever they decided they wanted to call it, whatever they agreed it meant to them. To their relationship.

 

Relationship. Right, they had a relationship, and that was the day when it truly began. Two weeks ago when they were kissing passionately in the darkness of Louis’ bedroom which had somehow come to belong to the both of them over the past six months.

 

When they got tired, their kissing turned lazy, and Louis dropped down from his forearms to collapse forward and snuggle close, wrapping Harry up in his arms.

 

They didn’t talk about it. Fell asleep just like that, with Louis curled up on top of Harry, encompassing him in his arms. Making him feel warm and safe and cared for.

 

The next morning Louis kissed him awake and whispered, “Morning, love,” in his raspy sleep-ridden voice.

 

They kept kissing after that, for the next two weeks. Gentle pecks here and there just to remind each other they were adored and loved. Louis always asked before he kissed Harry, in either a great act of chivalry or more likely an attempt not to frighten him by catching him off guard. Harry still found himself flinching a lot, jumping at the slightest sound or touch, always frightened in this implicit way. He doesn’t know how to fix it, but his therapist seems confident this overactive fight-or-flight response will diminish with time. How much time, he refuses to say. Harry suspects years. Decades, even.

 

“What are we?” Harry asked, just last week. He had been reading a line of poetry out loud for Louis to hear, when the thought struck him and he had to ask immediately.

 

Louis hadn’t flinched or even moved in the slightest. He was calm when he replied, “I’ll be anything you want me to be, H.”

 

The problem is that Harry is so indecisive. Not to mention, he over-thinks everything, and he has quite the habit of thinking he’s something more with someone than reality proves.

 

So he asked, “Are we… are we just friends?”

 

Louis _did_ still at that, stopping his fingers from where they were tracing over Harry’s tiger tattoo on his thigh. Harry was wearing soft lavender pajama shorts. When they got into bed, a poetry book in Harry’s hands, Louis had immediately rucked up Harry’s shorts and ran his fingers over the tattoo, leaving Harry shivering from the feather-light touch.

 

“…Do you want us to be just friends?”

 

The thought of that made Harry’s heart stop momentarily in his chest. It was hard to get the words out but eventually he choked out, “No, please I don’t want that.”

 

“So what do you want, then? You want more?”

 

“What do _you_ want?”

 

“I want you in any way you’ll have me. I want you to be happy and safe.”

 

Harry felt like crying, with the weight of Louis’ care pressing heavy on his chest. After so many years of neglect it felt nice to have someone truly care for him. “I don’t know how any of this works,” Harry admitted, voice dipped in regret. He had only ever ‘dated’ one person in his life but even then it didn’t really count; their relationship was so screwed up it could hardly be considered such. “But I want us to be more than friends.”

 

“We can be boyfriends, then?” Louis suggested, resuming his tracing of the tiger tattoo. Fingers delicate, soft, and ticklish.

 

“We can?”

 

“Of course we can, silly. I mean, we’ve been kissing for a week now, and sleeping in the same bed for months. I think that means we’re kind of boyfriends, right?”

 

“I… I don’t know.”

 

“Of course, if we were actually dating, I would’ve taken you out to dinner by now.” Louis sat up, pressing himself up with his palms on Harry’s thighs and meeting his eyes so Harry could see he was teasing. He had a lovely mischievous smile curving up his lips when he asked, “So what do you say, Harry Styles. Will you be my boyfriend?”

 

That was a week ago. Now it’s December 24th and they’re officially dating. Not much has changed since then—they still kiss and sleep in the same bed and pretty much spend every moment of every day together. They haven’t been out on an official date yet because they’re so busy with the holidays and work. Well, Louis is the busy one, and Harry is the dependent one who follows Louis around like a shadow. But the point still stands.

 

So it’s December 24th and Harry is locked away in the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of baby-blue panties that may or may not match the color of Louis’ eyes. His hands are shaking when he stands up again to revisit his reflection in the mirror.

 

Staring back is an ugly ghost with worn-out eyes, sickly pale skin, and revolting scars marking up his skin. Sometimes he feels beautiful with the way Louis looks at him or touches him, but right now beneath the bright fluorescent lights of the bathroom, Harry just feels unsightly. He thought the lingerie would give him confidence, but instead he feels so self-conscious there’s a chance he might never leave this bathroom ever again for fear of other people seeing how ghastly he looks.

 

_But no, he has to do this. He has to. God damn it, Harry is going to have sex with Louis today if it kills him._

 

With shaking hands, he opens the bottle of lube he bought from the corner store in preparation for today. He has half the mind to check his phone for the time, seeing he has about three hours before he and Louis will be in the car and on their way to Louis’ childhood home.

 

It’s Louis’ birthday today and Harry is determined to do something right for once in his life. Birthday sex is a thing, right?

 

With newfound determination, he slips his slicked fingers beneath the soft lace of the panties and very, very slowly presses a finger inside for the first time since he was with The Monster. The pressure of the pad of his finger against his rim is such a shock, he immediately flashes back to the countless times he was held against his will. He pulls away trembling, eyes wide with fear. For a second he thinks he’s back in The Monster’s flat, fingering himself so it’ll hurt less when The Monster fucks him later.

 

_Fuck_ , Harry thinks, unable to even look at his reflection. He knows what he’ll see: a man so weak and terrified he can’t even pleasure himself. Angry and frustrated with himself, he tries again, more hasty this time, finger pushing in hard before the flashbacks can frighten him again. It’s uncomfortable but he needs to do this, he needs to.

 

Last time he met with his therapist, he very embarrassingly brought up the topic of sex. His therapist had said he was stable enough to try it again, as long as he took it slow.

 

With no excuses left, he fucks himself on his fingers even though he feels sore and gross. Dirty, even, as he glances at his reflection. An unwelcome blush heats his cheeks as he thinks about fingering himself in Louis’ bathroom, with the intention of offering his body to Louis later. As a _birthday present_. Clearly, he has no shame, and no self-worth either.

 

When he deems himself open enough to do it without hurting himself, he slips his fingers out and cleans up, wiping away the lube with a damp cloth. Finally, with trembling hands, he redresses, pulling on his lacy blue panties and a pair of cotton pajama shorts over them, despite the fact that it’s winter. The shorts make his bum look amazing, and his legs too. It’s a bit indecent but he’s really considering the fact that Louis may turn him down, so he feels the itchy need to try his hardest to be sexy. The jumper he pulls on top of it all is stretched out enough to slip down his shoulder slightly and show off his collarbones.

 

The game plan is this: leave the bathroom and find Louis. From there he’ll wing it. He doesn’t really know what to do or how to initiate sex but he hopes what he’s wearing will be enough. Maybe if they start kissing things will go from there?

 

He wipes beneath his eyes with a damp wad of toilet paper to decrease the redness of his skin. By the time he pulls his hands away, his face still looks puffy and tear-streaked. It is very obvious Harry has been crying, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. So he very briefly attempts to tame his wild hair, before giving up.

 

Then, with shaking fingers and an aching thud of his heart, he unlocks the bathroom door and pushes it open, stepping into the hall. His feet move on their own accord all the way to the bedroom. To Louis.

 

 

 

 

+

 

 

 

 

Louis is sitting on the bed, staring at his empty suitcase and internally groaning at all the packing he has to rush through thanks to his procrastination, when Harry comes in through the door.

 

Immediately, as a reflex, Louis looks up towards the entryway of his room, and feels all of the sudden the breath knocked out of him.

 

Because Harry is standing there, illuminated by the light from the hallway, looking like some sort of erotic angel with what he’s wearing and everything. Louis sees very short shorts that expose the tantalizing length of his legs and the sexy curve of his hips… Followed by a soft, loose jumper that’s slipping down his left shoulder and framing his collarbones.

 

When Louis’ eyes finally make it up to Harry’s face, he clearly sees something is wrong. Harry looks …strange, to say the least. Definitely like he’s been crying, with the way his eyes are rimmed red and glistening in the warm light of the lamp on the nightstand, the only light that’s on in the entire room.

 

_Fuck,_ he thinks desperately. _What’s going on?_

 

“Everything okay, babe-“ He tries to ask, but gets cut off by Harry crossing the room and very determinedly setting his bum right on Louis’ lap straddling him.

 

_Fuck._

 

To Louis, Harry is just so perfect in an infinite number of ways. He’s sweet and careful and lovely. He thinks he’s broken but Louis knows he’s too strong to be broken—too valiant, brave, and courageous to be anything even slightly resembling the word _tarnished_ or _ruined_ , like The Monster so adamantly claimed Harry to be.

 

So there’s an absolutely gorgeous, absolutely lovely person sitting on Louis’ lap right now, wearing nothing but short pajama shorts so the entirety of his legs is on display, and a cozy jumper that’s stretched out to be a size too big. He looks absolutely adorable in the sexiest way, and it’s making Louis’ blood pressure rise uncomfortably. By spontaneous impulse, Louis sets his hands down on Harry’s bare thighs, unintentionally feeling his silky smooth skin. _He must’ve shaved_ , Louis thinks dazedly, mind whirling.

 

He’s just about to ask if everything is okay when Harry beats him to it, speaking first.

 

“Happy birthday,” He greets with a smile, pink lips shining in the dim lighting. Is that lip gloss? His fingers twisting around the edge of his jumper, a sign of nervousness, Harry’s next proposition is shocking enough to momentarily stop Louis’ heart. “Have sex with me?”

 

_Come again?_ Louis thinks, eyes wide with bewilderment. _Not only is Harry sitting on his lap while wearing practically nothing, but he’s asking Louis to have sex with him? What the fuck…_

 

Louis laughs uncomfortably, uncertain if Harry is joking or not. He wants to inquire about it but Harry is gazing into his eyes very seriously, and _god_ has Louis never been able to say no to those beautiful, sad eyes. Especially not when Harry is rolling his hips forward, intentionally rubbing their crotches together.

 

“Ummm… Are you sure?” Louis asks tentatively, moving his shaking hands from Harry’s tempting thighs to the softness of his hips. It’s meant to help ease the burning desire in his core, but it doesn’t, really. In fact it might even make it worse.

 

A horribly adorable frown appears on Harry’s face, curving his pretty lips downwards. Louis loses all the breath in his lungs, finding himself unable to breathe. Harry is gorgeous, and they’ve been living together for months now, but god has Louis never been as affected by his beauty as he is right now. Clearly his resolve is weakening. The fact that they’ve been kissing for two weeks now may or may not have something to do with it.

 

“What do you mean, are you sure? I’ve been begging you for months!”

 

_Um, actually, you haven’t been begging me for months,_ Louis wants to correct. _In fact this is the first time you even really mentioned you want to have sex with me. Which is. Fine._ He means to say this all out loud, but before he can get the words out, Harry is very slightly bouncing up and down either in exasperation or excitement, or some awful mix of the two.

 

Whatever the reason, it succeeds in giving Louis an immediate and aching hard on. There’s no way to hide it, either, because Harry is very clearly sitting directly on top of where Louis’ dick is trapped beneath two layers of clothing, his joggers and his pants. He simply cannot control his body’s natural reaction to a gorgeous man _bouncing_ on top of his clothed dick. He just. _Cannot_. Any stronger man would react the same. It isn’t Louis’ fault.

 

_You’re insane_ , Louis wants to tell him. _Absolutely, infuriatingly, gorgeously insane. I’m so in love with you_ , are other words he could see himself spilling out. But he doesn’t. He just takes one more look at Harry, who is sitting on top of his hips and so very clearly is asking for something Louis so very clearly wants to give him, cherry lips parted slightly. Irresistible.

 

Very slowly and plainly, he answers, “Okay, fine.”

 

Harry’s reaction to Louis’ affirmative is instantaneous. He tackles Louis to the bed, in the process knocking over the suitcase with the long length of his clumsy legs. Louis barely hears it crash to the floor, though, because Harry is very immediately attacking him with enthusiastic kisses.

 

Giving up, Louis relaxes back into the bed and allows Harry to fully clamber on top of him, bracketing his knees on either side of his hips. He thinks maybe they should definitely talk about this, seeing as Harry has never once shown an interest in intercourse aside from the one time he asked what it was like to _make love_ to someone who _loved_ you, but other than that Louis figured Harry was too traumatized to even give it much thought. Apparently, he was wrong. It’s not the first time and it most certainly won’t be the last.

 

After a while of passionate kissing, he gets a bit bored of allowing Harry to have all the control. Using the force of his body weight, he flips them over on the bed so Harry is beneath him. As payback, he plants his bum firmly on Harry’s hips and smirks down at him, grinding forward ever so slightly. The sight of Harry beneath him, rosy-cheeked and breathless, _so_ gorgeous, makes Louis smile unabashedly. He just can’t help it.

 

“Harry?” He asks, already sliding Harry’s shirt up to expose his tummy. Then he thinks about it and stills his fingers slightly, vaguely worried.

 

“Yeah?” Harry gasps, evidently caught up in the moment, pupils blown wide with how aroused he is.

 

“If you want me to stop, just tell me okay?” Louis says slowly. He knows it’s important to say this instead of just going forward. But for some reason it still feels like he’s taking advantage of Harry.

 

“Mhmm,” Harry murmurs, running his big hands down Louis’ lower back before settling on his bum and squeezing, fingers digging in to the fabric of his joggers.

 

Louis frowns. “No Harry, seriously.” He pokes him in the dimple in an attempt to distract him from the way he’s very intently grasping Louis’ bum. “Just say the word and we’ll stop. Okay? Even if you just feel uncomfortable. Tell me. Promise?”

 

“I promise,” Harry whispers with his eyes closed and his cheeks rosy pink.

 

Louis eyes him nervously, searching his expression and body language for something… Anything… And finding no signs of him _not_ wanting to do this. “Thank you…” He says slowly, still not sure about this. Something feels off.

 

It takes him another moment to recall what Harry first said.

 

_Happy birthday. Have sex with me._

Happy birthday?

 

A flash of fear shoots down Louis’ spine as he considers the fact that Harry is offering his body as… as what? A _favor_? _Fuck_.

 

Immediately he pushes to the side, tumbling off Harry’s hips and sitting rigid beside him on the mattress. Before they do anything… he has to be sure.

 

Harry sits straight up too, eyes wide and fearful. Worried, like he thinks he did something wrong. Louis pushes away the very demanding urge to wrap Harry up in his arms to comfort him and tell him he did nothing wrong at all, that none of this is his fault.

 

“What’s wrong?” He asks, voice so small it makes Louis’ heart ache with the need to reassure him.

 

Louis swallows down the urge again, his eyes flitting to the quilt. “Um, nothing. Just. What, um, why are you asking for this?”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, why are you asking to um, have sex with me?” It sounds so clinical like that, so detached. Not fuck me or make love to me. Just. Have sex with me.

 

When Harry lifts his hand to brush a stray curl away from his face, Louis sees his fingers are trembling. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. So tentative and afraid, worried. “Um. Because I... I want to do this with you?”

 

Louis knows he sounds like an absolute arse but he has to know the truth. At this point, he is responsible for Harry. Thus if Harry somehow gets hurt by any of this, he is responsible for that as well. So he asks, “But why, though?”

 

“Because I… love you?” The way he says it, like he isn’t sure of it anymore, cools the fire burning in Louis’ heart so much it turns to ice.

 

Louis believes Harry loves him but he doesn’t believe that’s the only reason he’s asking for this. “Are you sure it’s not because you, like, feel obligated?”

 

“What?”

 

Louis blushes, again feeling so stupid for even bringing this to the light of day. But it’s important. So he sits up straighter and distances himself from Harry slightly so he can think more clearly. “I mean, are you sure you’re not just doing this because you think you have to because we’re boyfriends now or because it’s my birthday?”

 

Harry immediately tenses, looking away before covering his eyes with his hands. Louis doesn’t know what to make of that, if he can assume he’s correct or not about his presumptions.

 

So when Harry starts crying he completely doesn’t expect it.

 

“Harry?” Louis asks, very worried now, listening to the quiet sniffs coming from where Harry is sitting with his face covered by his hands. Louis takes in the tragic sight of him, all dressed up to ask Louis _to have sex with him. Fuck._

 

“I’m so stupid,” He wails quietly, curling in on himself. Making himself small.

 

Louis stares, horrified, so unsure of what to do, of what would be the right thing to say in a time like this. What does Harry want to hear?

 

So he decides to be honest and transparent in his confusion. “H, what are you talking about? Please, _please_ fill me in. I’m so confused.”

 

Harry just continues crying. With no clear end in sight, Louis scoots forward and very gently wraps his fingers around Harry’s wrists to pull his hands from his face.

 

“H, what’s wrong?” He asks once they’re eye to eye again.

 

Harry shies away, gaze flitting to the quilt. “I- You don’t like me.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Okay, Louis had not been expecting that.

 

“You don’t like me. You pity me. That’s why you let me kiss you.”

 

“What,” Louis echoes again, voice weaker now that he’s even more confused.

 

Harry groans, tearing his arms from his grasp and covering his face in his hands again, letting out an ugly sob. “We’re only in a relationship because you feel sorry for me. You love me like a friend and you don’t actually find me attractive, and that’s why you don’t want to have sex. It’s fine, I understand, I promise. I’m not- I’m not upset with you, I just. I feel so stupid.”

 

“Harry. What-“ He doesn’t even know what to say to that. It’s so wrong on a million different accounts. Eventually, what he settles on is, “I definitely do _not_ just love you like a friend. And I do _not_ pity you.”

 

Harry groans again, falling face-first on the bed. He groans some more into the pillow. “You do.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“You do.”

 

“I _don’t_. I love you, Harry.”

 

“Like a friend,” He argues, voice muffled.

 

“What the fuck, Harry, _no_. That’s not even close to being right.”

 

“So why won’t you have sex with me, then?” He challenges.

 

Louis throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “Stop calling it sex! Call it something else! No one just says ‘have sex with me’!”

 

“So you won’t _fuck_ me because I’m calling it the wrong thing, then?”

 

Louis’ breath catches at the new word choice. Much less clinical, much more… something. Definitely something. “No, that’s not it at all. I just think that you’re asking for this because you feel obligated, and I don’t want to do it if that’s the reason why you’re asking me. So tell me the truth Harry, and I’m asking because I care for you a lot. I love you, okay? So are you doing this just because you feel obligated to put out?”

 

“No,” He lies into the pillow. Louis knows he’s lying because his fingers are shaking again and he looks uncomfortable, shoulders tense even as he’s collapsed on the bed, tangled in the sheets.

 

“Harry…” Louis warns, trying to be stern but not abrasive.

 

He flips over on the bed, pressing himself back into the mattress and gazing up at Louis with his big green eyes widened and intensified to a piercing stare. So beautiful yet so terrifying, he looks almost inhuman. With his jaw set tight, eyes fierce, very deliberately, he says, “ _I want you. To fuck me_.”

 

Louis levels him with an equal stare. “No.”

 

Harry squirms, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut. “See, that’s exactly it, you don’t _love_ me, you _pity_ me. You pity me, and I’m so ugly you can’t even stand to _think_ about fucking me.”

 

“That is so wrong. So incorrect.”

 

Harry reopens his eyes, biting his lip again in an apparent attempt to be sexy and seductive. In any other situation it would work like a charm. He parts his thighs, spreading his legs open like he’s beckoning Louis inside. “Then prove it.”

 

It’s so hot, so _slutty_ , but Louis won’t let it crack his resolve. He’s strong enough to turn Harry down for the benefit of the both of them. If he has sex with Harry now, it will damage him psychologically. Even more than he’s already been damaged. Louis won’t allow that to happen, not at his hands at least, and not at anyone else’s if he can help it.

 

Louis shakes his head. “I can’t believe you. Harry, you know me. You know I would love you even if we never have sex together ever.”

 

“Yeah, _exactly_ , because you pity me enough to be in a relationship with me, but not enough to have sex with me. Because you find me so ugly and _ruined_. And by the way, you called it ‘sex.’”

 

Louis clenches his jaw. “Harry, fucking stop. You know I don’t pity you at all. And you _know_ I don’t think you’re ugly.”

 

“Then why won’t you fuck me?”

 

Louis stares up at the ceiling for strength and resolve. _Fuck_. “I already told you: because I know you feel obligated, and I want you to know that we don’t have to do this.”

 

“But even if I feel obligated that doesn’t mean I still don’t want to do it,” Harry argues, nudging Louis’ hip with his knee.

 

“So you admit you feel obligated, then?”

 

“We’re in a relationship. Aren’t we supposed to fuck? And on your birthday, no less.”

 

Louis smacks his own face with his hand. “That’s exactly what I said like five minutes ago. You feel obligated because we’re in a relationship and because it’s my birthday.”

 

“Yeah, and I’m saying I _am_ obligated. So the reason you’re saying no is because you’re not turned on by me.”

                                                                 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Louis groans. “Please believe me when I say I am absolutely turned on by you, okay? But you are _not_ obligated. And the fact that you’re doing this because it feels obligatory means we shouldn’t be doing it at all. So go get dressed, we have to pack.”

 

“Ooh, ‘obligatory,’ big word,” Harry mocks, though he closes his legs and sits up, obviously listening to him.

 

Louis sighs, leaning forward to kiss Harry softly across the cheek, cupping his face with one hand. “Go get dressed.”

 

“We really can’t fuck right now?”

 

“No, babe. You’re definitely not ready.”

 

“You pity me. You think I’m ugly.”

 

“Give it up, H, okay? We have shit to do that doesn’t involve us and a bed.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be the bed; we could do it anywhere, really. On the couch, on the floor, against the wall…” Okay, Harry is definitely teasing him now.

 

“Harry…” Louis warns.

 

“Louis…” Harry mimics, lying down on the bed again. Then, in a much quieter voice, so low Louis wonders if he himself is hallucinating, Harry says, “So I fingered myself for nothing, then.”

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

Harry glares at him. Then he spreads his legs and slips a hand right down his shorts, pressing a finger inside. A small breath escapes his lips and Louis watch in horror as he retracts his hand, adamantly showing Louis his lube-covered finger as evidence.

 

“I fingered myself. In your bathroom. And now I’m just so _open_ and _empty_ with _nothing_ inside me.” He says it so innocently, like he didn’t just admit to fucking himself on his fingers in the other room, only a few meters away from Louis, and then hint that he would prefer to be filled as opposed to empty as he is now. _Fuck_.

 

Louis is really on his last nerve. Vaguely he wonders if this is a side-effect of the trauma and abuse Harry has experienced. _Hypersexual tendencies_. He has definitely read that somewhere before.

 

Turing away, Louis lifts his suitcase off the floor and starts piling clothing into it. Offhandedly, as an end to the awful conversation, he says, “There’s a dildo beneath the bed if you’re so inclined.”

 

It’s meant as a crude joke, a way of saying _go fuck yourself_ because Louis would never actually say those three words directly to Harry. He absolutely does _not_ mean for Harry to lean over the side of the bed and reach under it, hand searching before he pulls out the glittery pink dildo. And he really, really, really doesn’t mean for Harry to laugh triumphantly before running across the hall to the bathroom with the dildo in his hands.

 

He especially doesn’t mean for any of this to happen, when he hears Harry moaning obnoxiously from the bathroom, clearly trying to prove the point that if Louis won’t fuck him he’ll fuck himself, just to piss off Louis.

 

As birthdays go, this one isn’t the greatest.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The subsequent scenes (at Jay's house, etc.) will be published soon.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I love everyone's comments, so thank you for that as well.
> 
> [Reblog the new fic post on Tumblr](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/post/170744814834)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! All comments are deeply appreciated. I love feedback, always.
> 
> If you liked this fic, please [reblog the fic post.](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/post/166447958524/you-are-a-lovely-adjective-no-word-ever-enough-by) And [find me on tumblr!](https://angelichl.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you, love you.


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